


What We’ve Become

by rbcch



Category: RuPaul's Drag Race RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-07
Updated: 2020-09-03
Packaged: 2020-10-21 02:55:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 41,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20686346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rbcch/pseuds/rbcch
Summary: Yvie freezes mid-movement. The voice is vaguely familiar, the breathy lilt of it, the purr-like timbre — but in the city of millions, that alone is hardly a happenstance. What really stalls Yvie is the unmistakable uniqueness of the order, the recognisable uncommonness. She’s heard these exact words before, never behind the counter, not in years, but the fact doesn’t stop her heart sinking with hopeless hope.Or, Yvie and Scarlet don’t have a past, not really, and their future isn’t a given either.In which they’re a classic case ofthe right person at the wrong time— twice.





	1. In the Small Town Firelight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not so loosely inspired by ldr’s this is what makes us girls, this project is my newest baby, and i’m beyond excited to finally get to share this first chapter with you. this is a slow burn story, and the rating will go up to explicit eventually. the world’s biggest thank you to my ever so wonderful betas, frey and jazz. without them i’m nothing. please enjoy and let me know what you thought, either here or on @scarletenvynyc on tumblr ! 
> 
> warnings for this chapter: underage drinking and smoking, (reckless) recreational drug use, explicit language.

“As if! Unlike some of us, I actually _can_ hold my alcohol!”

The exclamation is accompanied by ringing giggles, indistinguishable chatter, and clicking of heels on the floor. Yvie glances over her shoulder, her hand remaining on the lock of her locker and her eyes scanning the easily recognisable source of the commotion.

A group of girls stop at a locker a row up from Yvie’s, the tallest of them working it open while the rest position themselves around her and continue their obnoxiously loud conversation. They don’t seem to pay any attention to the other students in the hallway, one of them barely stepping aside when someone tries to get to their locker past her, and never shifting her focus from her company. Yvie lets her gaze drift over the group absentmindedly, uninterested until she spots the familiar back of a blonde facing away from her. She’s playing with a lock of her hair and laughing at something, and Yvie’s heart does a stupid leap in her chest.

“What about you, Envy? Planning to find a new dick to ride?” Yvie hears one of the girls ask in her shrill voice.

“At least I’d be doing something. I bet you’re planning to lie on your back and spread your legs again, Ariel,” the blonde retorts instantly.

The girls screech almost maniacally, and Yvie huffs quietly and turns to busy herself with the number combination on her padlock.

“Bitch, I have a boyfriend,” Ariel shrieks.

“Except that has nothing to do with what Scarlet just said,” notes a new, more resigned and calm voice.

“What the fuck, Plastique? Why are you siding with her, you’re supposed to be my bestie.”

“I’m not siding with—”

“You are all a bunch of stupid skanks,” the fourth girl states with a tired sigh. “Shut up.”

Yvie screws her locker door open and can’t resist the urge to look over at the group. The tallest is still occupied with the contents of her own locker, while Ariel and Plastique seem to be engaged in a quick back and forth on either side of her, talking with their hands animatedly. The blonde, Scarlet, is standing next to Ariel, distractedly swaying her handbag in front of herself and not really participating in the conversation. Shifting a little, she turns her head, letting her gaze wander, and catches Yvie’s eyes on her.

She immediately breaks a smile, the kind that isn’t too exaggerated but looks like it probably hurts her cheeks nonetheless, and gives Yvie a tiny wave. Yvie lets one corner of her mouth curl up, attempting to conceal the hopeless grin threatening to spill and play it off casual. She lifts her hand to wiggle her fingers back at Scarlet, whose expression brightens even further.

Scarlet seems to falter where she is for a moment hesitantly, her eyes never leaving Yvie. Then, without sparing her friends a glance or a word, she throws her bag on her forearm and makes a rapid beeline for Yvie across the hallway, taking tiny, quick steps in her pumps.

“Hey, Yves,” she lets out breathlessly as she comes to a stop.

“Howdyoo, princess,” Yvie says. Scarlet rolls her eyes in mock exasperation, but her façade cracks almost straight away, and her little face grows coyly pleased — the effect of the pet name prominent.

With a satisfied smirk, Yvie turns to her locker, intending to roam through it. However, she doesn’t get anywhere with that particular project, because she’s interrupted by Scarlet tugging on her elbow and swiftly pulling her into a hug with a coo. Scarlet’s arms twine around her neck, bag presumably now in hand, and Yvie instinctively grabs Scarlet’s waist, fingers aimlessly twisting the fabric of her red cardigan.

“How are you?” Scarlet asks against Yvie’s jawline.

“Nah, pretty much same old shit,” Yvie mutters into Scarlet’s hair. It smells comfortingly familiar — fruity with a hint of bubblegum. “You?”

Scarlet drops back to her feet from her position on her tiptoes — she’s shorter than Yvie even in her little heels — and Yvie is forced to reluctantly let go of her. She hooks her thumb under the strap of her backpack and jerks the shoulder it’s perched on to readjust it. Meanwhile, Scarlet tucks some of her hair behind her ear, and then proceeds to twist a strand around her index finger.

“‘M good,” she drawls. “Bummed it’s Monday. I still haven’t recovered from the weekend fully. Brooke’s parents drove up to New York City to attend some charity dinner or whatever, so we had a lil sleepover at hers. We got _so_ wasted, it was so much fun. Ariel threw up in one of Brooke’s mom’s 300-dollar RabLabs bowls. That girl is a mess, I swear.”

Yvie chuckles her acknowledgement and finally manages to retrieve her French book from her locker. “Y’all are fucking wild.”

Scarlet laughs and shrugs, clearly unable, and most likely also unwilling, to deny Yvie’s statement. Yvie’s never asked her, but sometimes she suspects that Scarlet and her friends aren’t particularly ashamed of their reputation. Other times, Yvie actually feels like they’re proud of it and doing their upmost to keep the rumours fresh and circulating amidst the students, but that’s really neither here nor there.

“The Walters twins are throwing their start of the year party this upcoming Saturday,” Scarlet continues, and Yvie produces another noncommittal noise to let her know she’s listening. “You coming, Yvonne?”

Pressing her text book to her chest, Yvie rolls her eyes. “Ugh, Scarlet, you know I hate those.”

“C’mon, Yves. We’re only gonna be high school juniors once. You _gotta _come,” Scarlet whines and bounces up and down on her toes. “I’ll be there.”

“And that’s supposed to convince me to come?” Yvie pokes jokingly.

“Oh my God, fuck you,” Scarlet yelps through a giggle and tries to slap Yvie’s bicep with her palm.

Laughing, Yvie catches her wrist, slender fingers encircling it loosely, stopping her easily before the impact lands. Then, without letting herself think too much about it, she slides her hand higher and interlaces their fingers. Scarlet scoffs audibly, but through a small, shy smile, her thumb stroking Yvie’s almost as if unconsciously.

“Aw, don’t pout, princess,” Yvie persuades and pushes her own lower lip out teasingly. “Kahanna’s super excited for it, it’s practically all she talks about lately, so I’m sure I’ll end up indulging her like the decent human being that none of you are. I really need better friends, eh?”

Scarlet lights up like a Christmas Tree on fire, her toothy grin almost absurd. “So you’ll be there?” she whoops, conveniently ignoring everything else Yvie said.

“Mm,” Yvie confirms. “Looks like it. Unfortunately.”

“Oh my God, yes! Maybe we could—”

“Envy! You coming or what?”

Yvie snaps her head in the direction of the voice, pulls her hand out of Scarlet’s and feels Scarlet do the same. Brooke has her arms crossed on her chest, one hip popped sassily. She’s quirking an eyebrow at Scarlet in a way that appears almost challenging. Plastique is on her left, gaze fixed on the screen of her rhinestoned and glittery phone, and Ariel’s on the right, combing her fingers through her hair and eyeing the situation with poorly concealed curiosity. The scene looks like it’s from a bad remake of _Mean Girls_, one that, unlike the original, takes its drama too seriously and lacks any level of basic self-awareness. Yvie’s not sure if she wants to laugh or scowl at the ridiculousness of it all. She lets her arm drop to her side and clenches her fist.

“I gotta go, I’ll see you around?” Scarlet glances between her friends and Yvie, but doesn’t make a move yet.

“Preferably before we’re eighty, Envy,” Brooke insists before Yvie manages to say anything.

Scarlet shoots Yvie an apologetic little half-smile and waves sheepishly, then dashes off and scurries toward her friends. Yvie purses her lips into a thin line and narrows her eyes, following Scarlet with her gaze.

Brooke spins around well before Scarlet has reached the group and heads down the hallway, Ariel and Plastique slightly behind her. Scarlet catches up to them easily and falls into step with Brooke, heels clicking on the floor and hips swaying.

“Don’t tell me you’ve suddenly switched teams, Envy,” Yvie hears Brooke comment in an annoyingly light tone. “Is the sex better, or are you just bored with dick?”

“Why, Brookie? You curious to try it for yourself, or?” Scarlet shoots back, her words equally faux innocent.

“No?” Brooke scoffs hastily. “Just wish you’d hurry up and switch if you’re into _that_, so there’ll be some half decent boys left for me that you haven’t put your paws all over first.”

Scarlet’s reply drowns in the increasing distance and all the other noise, but Yvie can’t claim she’s particularly keen on hearing the rest of that conversation anyway. With a tired sigh, she turns back around and shakes her head slightly, more exasperated than really bothered by the situation. Rolling her eyes, she slams her locker closed and adjusts her backpack again before starting toward her French class, in the opposite direction of the catty group.

*

Yvie goddamn hates parties.

And she tells Kahanna as much, for about the twentieth time that evening.

It’s not that she minds the loud music. Okay, she _does _mind Guetta comparing some sexy bitch to his neighbourhood whore, or whatever, but that has more to do with the lyrics than the volume or the bass track, and she doesn’t _generally_ mind the music. She doesn’t mind the alcohol, either, and it would be quite ridiculous of her to claim she does. Yvie rather likes alcohol, in almost all its forms, even though she’d prefer to drink it on some roof with a couple friends, smoking cigarettes and chilling as the sun sets and the evening gets cooler.

What Yvie minds is the groups of noisy, judgemental girls who wear too much makeup and too little clothing, and unintelligent, rowdy boys who act a fool and get into fistfights to rid themselves of the last few braincells still wondrously in their possession. So, Yvie guesses she doesn’t _hate_ parties per se, but she hates the crowds attending them.

Kahanna just laughs at her half-hotted complaining and brushes her off. Pushing a full Solo cup that she seemingly produced out of nowhere into Yvie’s hand, she determinedly continues leading them through the thick stacks of people. Yvie sniffs the contents of the cup suspiciously, and, unable to quite pinpoint what she’s smelling, takes a sip in the hopes that getting steadily drunker will make all of this more bearable.

She loses Kahanna approximately 17 minutes into the damned party when she turns for less than 5 seconds to say hi to someone and wheels around only to find her dearest friend gone without a trace. It’s not something unheard of — Kahanna disappears pretty much every single time when the two of them go out, even though she always promises she won’t, and then emerges anywhere from moments to hours later, usually dishevelled and blissfully unaware of exactly how long she’s been MIA and of all that Yvie had to witness and suffer through in the meantime.

Yvie groans to herself and downs the rest of the drink Kahanna so helpfully mixed her when they finally made it to the kitchen. Grabbing a new Solo cup from the isle in the middle of the room, she pours herself a beer and decides to go out for a smoke, trusting Kahanna to use her magical but somewhat unpredictable talent of locating Yvie regardless of where she is.

Whereas the kitchen is understandably packed due to the alcohol stored there, the swimming pool out back attracts people just the same. Yvie opts for the front door instead, shoving her unoccupied hand into the pocket of her denim jacket to make sure her cigarettes are still there as she pushes through the crowd once more.

The front yard is nearly empty, safe for a few small groups scattered around and an intermittent stream of people entering and exiting the property. It’s considerably quieter, too, the muffled music and all the chatter and laughter turning into nothing more than a background noise, and the evening is chilly on Yvie’s skin, refreshing. She hadn’t even realised how hot and stuffy it had gotten inside already, and how she needed a breath of air.

She picks a spot a little distance away from the house and flops on the lawn. Balancing her beer between her thighs, she retrieves a cigarette, lights it and lets the first drag ease the tension in her neck and shoulders. There’s a loud yelp piercing the air, one that Yvie should hope sounds excited, followed by whooping and laughing. Yvie doesn’t attempt fighting off an eye roll, fishes her phone out of her jean pocket and flips it open with her thumb, typing out a text to Kahanna, one-handed. Unsurprisingly, it never delivers, but Yvie wasn’t counting on it anyway.

Pressing her phone back into the pocket, she busies herself with her drink and cigarette. The beer is the cheap kind, and slightly too warm to properly hide the fact, but Yvie has long ago concluded that drinking this piss is worth it if it means she doesn’t need to A) pay for it and B) stay sober in the company of her inebriated classmates.

She rests her burning cigarette between her lips and pinches a loose thread on the seam of her jeans, then absently twirls it around her index finger to rip it off. At least Kahanna always feels remorseful after bailing, which means she’ll buy Yvie Chipotle or something.

“Eeevee!” someone calls, and Yvie twists her upper body to look in the direction of the sound.

It’s Scarlet, raising a bottle of something clear at Yvie, presumably in an attempt to greet her, seeing as her other hand is just as occupied. She’s making her way across the lawn, slightly wobbly in her strappy heels, and Yvie feels mildly concerned, worries that she’ll trip over. Scarlet appears to have the same thought, or maybe she just gets frustrated at being slowed down by the unforgiving combination of stilettos and uneven ground, because she bends over to unbuckle the straps encircling her ankles and kick the shoes off. Judging by the wolf whistles coming from a group of guys smoking by the porch, the movement causes the already short skirt of Scarlet’s black dress to fly up, and Yvie feels heat rise in her chest, or maybe lower. Blindly stumping out her finished smoke on the floor, she’s forced to wrestle the desire to growl, or, better yet, jump up and do something stupid.

Before she can let her reckless, alcohol-and-anger-induced side take over, though, Scarlet straightens up, heels now in the same hand as the bottle. She throws an amused _You fucking creeps_ over her shoulder, and then flashes Yvie a smile, sprinting toward her with newly found steadiness.

“Yvieee!” she huffs out as she comes to a stop. “There you are. I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

She looks beautiful, in an intentional way. Her hair is curled and teased, and partially done up, and she wears more makeup than usual, smokey eye and red lip and all. Yvie imagines she must’ve spent a good while preparing for the party in her room, singing along to her music and getting distracted to dance whenever one of her favourite songs came on, and suddenly her ribcage feels uncomfortably tight.

“Where else would a smoker be at a party?” she asks rhetorically, and Scarlet laughs.

“You know, to my defence, most smokers can be found in groups,” Scarlet notes, and then lowers her voice conspiratorially. “I’ve heard it’s a social habit.”

It’s Yvie’s turn to chuckle, and Scarlet grins in response, nudging the side of Yvie’s thigh with her bare toes lightly.

“You okay, princess?” Yvie checks.

“Uh-huh,” Scarlet nods solemnly, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world and there’s no way she isn’t. Letting her heels fall out of her grasp carelessly, she drops on the ground by Yvie’s side in one swift motion, and stretches her legs out, crossing them at the ankles. “I brought you a beer.”

Yvie finally registers the stuff in Scarlet’s other hand. She’s stacked two cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon on top of each other, and her middle finger is hooked over the edge of a Solo cup, empty except for a bunch of ice cubes. Scarlet tilts the cans toward Yvie, and Yvie grabs one, chugging the remnants of her own beer.

“Thanks, where’d you get Pabst? There’s only that shit from the keg in the kitchen,” Yvie wonders aloud as she taps her fingers against the top of the can methodically.

Scarlet deposits the bottle on the ground and wiggles her eyebrows at Yvie. “I have my ways, Yvaine. It’s better you don’t know.”

Yvie breathes out a laugh, flicks her can open and watches Scarlet do the same with hers. As Scarlet starts pouring the beer into her cup with ice, Yvie groans exaggeratedly and gives Scarlet’s shoulder a gentle shove.

“God, I always selectively forget you do that shit,” she rumbles, and Scarlet giggles and tries to push her away with her elbow without pausing her pouring or spilling a drop. “That’s fucking gross, Scarlet.”

“Don’t be a hater, bitch,” Scarlet says happily and brings the cup up to her mouth. She slurps the foam that’s formed to make room for the rest of her beer, and then empties the can.

“You’re not supposed to drink beer on ice,” Yvie complains.

“It’s better when it’s iced,” Scarlet states matter-of-factly and takes a sip. “Aaah, soooo good.”

“Then fucking put it in the fridge or freezer before drinking, don’t water it down with ice. Christ. You’re ruining it.”

“‘M not, and it’s not the same if it’s chilled. It’s better on ice.”

“You’re doing it wrong,” Yvie says.

“Okay, beer aficionado,” Scarlet agrees mock seriously. “All I gotta say is… Haters gonna hate.”

Yvie sighs and rolls her eyes at Scarlet’s cheekiness, taking a gulp from her can. This isn’t the first time they’re having this conversation, and Yvie suspects it won’t be the last either, seeing as Scarlet is dead set on diluting something that is already made of mostly water, no matter how much Yvie nags about it. Unbothered, Scarlet pokes Yvie’s cheek with her index finger and sticks her tongue out, and Yvie has trouble keeping up her feigned annoyance.

She rolls her eyes again and looks away to conceal the stupidly endeared smile that she doesn’t manage to fight off. Desperate to busy herself with something else, she takes out her pack of cigarettes and thumbs it open, tugging one out with her mouth.

“May I have one, too?” Scarlet chirps.

Wordlessly, Yvie extends the smokes her way, and rests her can between her knees while Scarlet retrieves a cigarette of her own. Locating her lighter in one of the jacket pockets, Yvie puts the pack away and reaches to ignite Scarlet’s first. Scarlet moves closer, too, catches the flame with the tip of her cigarette, and for a while Yvie is stuck staring at her illuminated face, the way the shadows and lights dance across her features, and how incredibly big and grey her eyes are as she looks up at Yvie.

The lighter goes out before the moment drags on uncomfortably long, and Scarlet leans back, holding the cigarette between her index and middle fingers and tilting her chin up to exhale the first lungful of smoke. Yvie lets her gaze linger for just a little bit longer, and then casts it down and concentrates on sparking up.

“Where’s Kahanna?” Scarlet inquires.

“Dunno,” Yvie shrugs, angling her face to look back at Scarlet. “Probably somewhere sucking dick.”

Scarlet covers her mouth with the cup she was just drinking from when Yvie spoke and swallows harshly, then coughs out a strangled laugh.

“Oh my fucking God, Yvie,” she rasps out, and Yvie throws her hand up as if to say _What? I’m just being honest._ Scarlet clears her throat and takes a drag before fixing Yvie a puzzled glare. “Why aren’t you?”

“Somewhere sucking dick?” Yvie questions with a quirked brow. “Think the answer’s pretty obvious, Scarlet.”

Scarlet lets out a subdued scream and kicks Yvie, who just snorts loudly and traps Scarlet’s foot between her ankles and clicks their heels together playfully.

“You know that’s not what I meant,” Scarlet whines, her toes tapping against the side of Yvie’s Converse. “Why aren’t you somewhere hooking up with some pretty girl?”

Scarlet is regarding her expectantly, earnestly, and Yvie isn’t quite sure how to answer her. She stalls by holding in the smoke she just inhaled until her lungs burn, and then throws her head back to blow the cloud out into the clear night sky. Once it’s dissipated, she meets Scarlet’s eyes again, and shrugs dismissively.

“Much more interesting question is, why aren’t you?” she shoots back.

Scarlet wrinkles her nose, just for a fleeting moment, in a way that Yvie doesn’t really know how to interpret. Then, her demeanour changes just as suddenly, and she gives Yvie a shrug of her own, breaking into weightless giggles.

Yvie doesn’t get a proper chance to ponder her reaction, because Scarlet takes the last drag and sends the butt flying across the yard with a sharp flick of her wrist before scooting even closer to Yvie and laying her head on Yvie’s shoulder. Yvie lets out a shuddering breath, senses Scarlet’s arm wind around her and her fingers press into her waist. She throws her own finished cigarette somewhere and tries not to concentrate on how soft Scarlet’s hair is against her neck and jawline, or on the way the dominant notes of orchid and the wild vanilla of Scarlet’s perfume fill her airways, brings her can to her lips and focuses on the bitter flavour instead.

“Oh, Yves,” Scarlet exhales. “Can you believe we’re juniors already? It’s literally insane.”

“Don’t even remind me,” Yvie groans.

“We’re gonna have to think about the future soon, and, like, make all sorts of decisions and commitments and stuff. Really, Yvie, this is the freest we will be until like, retirement!”

“Ugh, don’t remind me,” Yvie repeats. “I’m not ready to think about that in any capacity.”

“Yeah, me neither,” Scarlet hums and straightens up without much of a warning, startling Yvie. “Tonight’s actually about getting so fucked up we forget.”

Yvie sends her a quizzical glance, knitting her brows together, but Scarlet doesn’t bother diving into further explanations, just winks at Yvie with a wicked sparkle in her eyes. She finishes her beer in one huge swallow, slamming the cup on the grass next to herself after, and reaches to grab the bottle she came with.

“Someone’s thirsty,” Yvie notes as Scarlet wipes the corners of her mouth with the pad of her thumb, careful not to smear her lipstick, checking the label on the bottle. “Vodka?”

“Uh-huh,” Scarlet says. “Don’t tell whiskey.”

Yvie chuckles and observes Scarlet unscrew the cap and outstretch the vodka her way soundlessly. She hesitates for a second, unsure if she really can stomach anything stronger than beer without a mixer right now, but then Scarlet goes to withdraw, and Yvie decides to throw all unnecessary caution to the wind and snatches the bottle from Scarlet’s grasp. Hastily, before she can change her mind, she lifts her chin and pours some liquor down her throat. The sterile taste and the ensuing burning makes her scrunch up her face, and she shakes her head as if that’ll help her disgust pass faster.

“God, this is fucking vile,” she croaks out, handing the bottle back to Scarlet and drying her mouth with the back of her hand.

“Yeah, I guess,” Scarlet muses. “Gets the job done pretty well, though.”

She slips her leg from between Yvie’s, bumps their knees together and takes a swig, her face staying far more stoic through it all than Yvie knows hers did. She aimlessly trails the tip of her index finger around the rim of her can and leans back on her other arm, chews her lower lip and fruitlessly tries to tear her gaze away from the girl beside her. Scarlet seems oblivious, almost zoned out as she silently mouths the lyrics of whatever song is playing in the house, her eyes glued to something across the street, and keeps drinking from the bottle at a worryingly fast pace.

“Yves?” she starts absently.

“Yeah, princess?”

“You going to homecoming?”

She finally abandons whatever it was she was so focused on and turns back to Yvie with a little wistful smile tugging at her lips. Yvie exaggerates a scandalised scowl, and Scarlet squeals in amusement and delight.

“Absolutely not,” Yvie says with determination.

“Awww,” Scarlet drawls, her lips starting to form a pout. “Please?”

“No, Scarlet.”

Scarlet widens her eyes and makes her lip tremble in the way Yvie has witnessed her do all too often in the years they’ve been friends. The impact Scarlet’s puppy eyes have on people is usually weirdly effective and compelling, but Yvie likes to tell herself she knows Scarlet’s little tricks better than most, and is thus more equipped to withstand them.

“C’mon now, why not?” Scarlet says sulkily.

“Because Kahanna has a date, I’m pretty sure, and I’m absolutely not gonna go third wheel like a goddamn moron,” Yvie explains, her tone a soft contrast to the harshness of her words. Scarlet opens her mouth to — most likely — protest, but Yvie cuts in before she can. “And I’m _definitely _not asking anyone to be my date. I really can’t be bothered to deal with a bunch of high schoolers’ casual homophobia. Besides, there’s not even anyone I want to ask.”

“No one at all?” Scarlet frowns.

“Um, well, I mean,” Yvie stutters and takes a sip to conceal that. “No one available, anyway.”

“Aw, okay,” Scarlet says agreeably and offers her the vodka.

Yvie grabs it, mostly surprised by Scarlet not pressing further, and gladly takes a shot, grateful for the distraction. In the meantime, Scarlet perks up noticeably, the mischievous spark in her eye growing darker.

“Ooh, I almost forgot,” she says and unceremoniously shoves her hand down her dress. She cups one of her breasts, and Yvie chokes on the lingering aftertaste of vodka and air. She tries to look away, but the movement pushes the soft flesh up and centre just _so_, and the swell of it is addictive to admire.

“Ah, there you are!” Scarlet exclaims, pulling her hand out and dangling something in front of the stunned Yvie.

Running her tongue across her parted lips, Yvie tries to respectfully stop obsessing over Scarlet’s cleavage and squints at the small object pinched between her friend’s index and middle fingers. It’s a resealable plastic bag that contains three pills, all of them perfectly round and pale pink.

“You want one?” Scarlet inquires.

“Nah, thanks,” Yvie says.

Scarlet hums in acknowledgement and fishes out a pill, popping it into her mouth without further ado and gesturing for Yvie to give her the bottle. Yvie obliges quietly, and Scarlet washes the drug down with the vodka. As she seals the bag closed and hides it in her bra again, Yvie lights yet another cigarette.

They’re silent for a while after that. Scarlet takes a more reclining position, propping herself up on her elbows, and Yvie gives up the fight against her magnetic pull and allows herself to survey the blonde unabashedly. Most of her hair is falling down her back and shoulders, but there’s a couple locks framing her face and cascading across her chest in flawless curls. Her lids are half-closed, likely made heavy by all the alcohol and possible drugs she’s consumed, and she’s blinking slowly, almost languidly. Yvie lets her gaze drift on her defined jawline, on the delicate length of her neck, on the hollow of her throat between her visible collarbones, on the luscious curve of her breasts, on…

“We could go together, you know,” Scarlet speaks all of a sudden.

“Huh?” Yvie guiltily snaps her eyes higher.

“To homecoming,” Scarlet elaborates. “You and me could go to homecoming together.”

“Scarlet…” Yvie moans.

“No, listen, we really should,” Scarlet says with more certainty and excitement in her voice, like the more she thinks about it, the more it makes sense to her. “I wanna go, and I would like to spend time with you, and we could—ooh, we could make your mystery unavailable girl jealous. Does she go to our school? We will totally make her jealous.”

Yvie lets out a cloud of smoke and rolls her eyes. “I—”

_“Scarlet!”_

The shout cuts through the air, sharp and high-pitched, urgent, alarming the both of them. Yvie feels herself jerk a little, and Scarlet immediately sits up straighter, capping the vodka and turning toward the house. Yvie follows her line of sight, sees Ariel approach them in a rush, high heels in hand. As she gets closer, it becomes increasingly more obvious she’s very distressed. Scarlet must notice it too, because she drops the bottle on the ground haphazardly and scrambles to her feet.

By the time Scarlet’s got up, Ariel has reached them, and her poor state is all more apparent. She’s shaking uncontrollably, and she seems slightly incomprehensible at best and highly distraught at worst. Scarlet is forced to catch her by her elbows, and there’s a moment in which Yvie nearly jumps up to assist her as Ariel struggles against the embrace before going observably weak and tiny.

“Ariel, what’s—”

“He is a fucking liar, Scarlet!” Ariel whimpers, words stringing together so profoundly that it’s difficult to understand what she’s saying. “He is a goddamn… _Fuck._”

She pushes against Scarlet’s grip once more, as if she’s set on escaping, but Scarlet doesn’t let her, readjusts her hold and shushes Ariel instead.

“Hey, hey, what’s going on, Ari?”

“He is… He is a fucking, a… fucking douchebag, he’s… he’s…”

Ariel’s voice breaks by the end of her fractured, mumbled sentence, and she punctuates it with a shattering exhale. Then her face contorts and she bursts into heart-wrenching sobs, tears dwelling in her eyes and spilling down her cheeks in wide, mascara-stained streaks.

“Hey, come here. Shh, honey, it’s all gonna be okay,” Scarlet says, her tone gentle with a tint of worry, and pulls Ariel closer.

Ariel drops her shoes and covers her face. Her cries are ripping through her in unrhythmic, harsh waves that sound like they’re going to leave her throat raw and her head pounding. Scarlet tenderly tucks Ariel’s hair behind her ears, out of the way, while her other hand stays caressing her upper arm.

“C’mon, honey, you gotta tell me what happened. Where’s Plastique? Where’s Brooke? What have you taken tonight? Did you do drugs without us again and get anxious, is that it?” she coaxes.

Ariel lifts her head and takes a deep breath. “How I hate him,” she whispers. “Scarlet, how I hate those guys.”

Scarlet freezes. “Darren?”

Ariel nods furiously and then dissolves into sobs again, her frame quivering like she’s cold. There’s a deep crease between Scarlet’s brow when she rotates around to look at Yvie, and the way she’s pinching her lower lip with her teeth looks unmistakably apologetic.

“I need to… I gotta get her to calm down, I gotta get her inside,” she says.

“Of course,” Yvie rushes out. “Do you need help?”

“No, no, I think it’s okay,” Scarlet assures and releases Ariel to collect both of their heels. Yvie scoops up the bottle and lifts it to Scarlet, and as Scarlet grabs it, their fingers brush and she stills for a second. She searches Yvie’s face like she doesn’t quite know what to say, and then shakes her head and murmurs, “I’m so sorry, Yves.”

“Princess,” Yvie says firmly. “It’s okay. Go help her. You don’t have anything to apologise for.”

_Okay_, Scarlet mouths inaudibly and then smiles tentatively. Yvie gives her a little encouraging nod, and she mirrors it before straightening up and concentrating on Ariel again. Yvie watches as Scarlet says something and places one of her forearms against the small of Ariel’s back, gently nudging her toward the house.

“I’ll see you later, Yves,” she throws over her shoulder.

“See you,” Yvie mutters, but Scarlet is already out of earshot and not looking at her.

Yvie glances down at where her cigarette has long since gone out, and flicks it away. Running her hand through her curls, she shakes her beer can to estimate how much she’s got left, and then chugs it down in one swig and gets up, heading toward the house to hopefully locate Kahanna.

*

“They did _what_?”

Kahanna adopts a shit-eating grin, leans one shoulder on the locker next to Yvie’s and unhurriedly folds her arms on her chest. “Apparently,” she starts with the same amount of theatrics that her posture is saturated with. “They stole a police car.”

It’s the Monday after the Walters’ party, and, like Mondays do, it seems determined to bring with it a fresh set of rumours and topics to discuss. Evidently, this week’s hot goss is interesting enough to force Kahanna to come to school on time for once and seek Yvie out before their first period.

Yvie blinks and opens her mouth, then closes it and shakes her head. “I… _What_?”

Kahanna’s eyes twinkle like they always do when she realises she’s heard something that Yvie hasn’t and will, within the next few minutes, be solely responsible for dropping the entire gravity of whatever gossip she’s about to recite on her friend. Usually Yvie lets her do it — and not only because Kahanna enjoys it, but because Yvie herself is a nosy bitch — but right now she’s a little frightened by what Kahanna’s about to tell.

“Girl,” Kahanna drawls, raking her fingers through her hair extensions. “So, apparently, Jones, Ari, and Envy—”

“Scarlet,” Yvie interrupts, and Kahanna raises a brow at her questioningly. “Her name is Scarlet.”

Kahanna rolls her eyes. “Geez, Yvie, you couldn’t be more obvious even if you tried. I’m impressed. Anyway, _Scarlet_, and, oh, I think B and Stique were there too. And maybe someone one of them is fucking? Unclear, but they hot wired a police car…”

“They hot wired a car, Kahanna? What is this, fucking _Gone in 60 Seconds_?” Yvie snaps.

Kahanna just waves her off and continues, clearly too immersed in the story to sense Yvie’s agitation. “Silky says there was a chase, and while they were trying to escape the cops, they crashed the car. Nobody got killed, Jesus, Yvie, chill. They drove through a storefront or something. It’s fucking wild, man. Everyone who saw them at the party says they had been drinking, but I bet it was more than just alcohol.”

“That is literally insane,” Yvie says. “None of that makes any fucking sense.”

Kahanna throws her hands up in surrender and shrugs. “It kinda does, though.”

“You need to watch less _Skins_. It’s clearly making your imagination run wild, Han,” Yvie grumbles. “I’m going to French, I’ll see you at lunch.”

However, there’s certain uneasiness dwelling in the pit of Yvie’s stomach as she heads to her class, the kind that feels like fear and suspicion and acid. As she conjugates _avoir _in _passé compose_, she convinces herself that it’ll pass soon.

It doesn’t.

On the contrary, as the day goes on and Yvie realises that Scarlet isn’t at school, and that the rest of her friend group are far quieter and less obnoxious than usual, it only intensifies.

*

Yvie is lying on her bed sketching when she hears rattling against the window of her room.

She pushes herself up on her arms and frowns at the glass just in time to witness something small fly against it and create a persistent drumming sound. Confused, Yvie rolls off the bed and peeks out, only to find Scarlet standing beneath it, a grin on her face and a pile of tiny pebbles from one of Yvie’s mom’s flower benches in her hand. She’s dressed down compared to how Yvie’s been seeing her lately, sporting a pair of black leggings and a pullover hoodie, with her hair done up in a bun.

“You could’ve just answered my texts,” Yvie whisper-shouts after wrenching the window open and sticking half her upper body out.

“I don’t have my phone!” Scarlet exclaims happily.

“Well, you could’ve used the front door like a normal person instead of this _Romeo and Juliet-_esque shit,” Yvie points out.

Scarlet scrunches up her face and giggles. “And where’s the fun in that? Where’s the sense of adventure, my dear Yvangeline, the casual drama?”

Yvie snorts and shakes her head, leaning on her forearms and interlocking her fingers.

“Come out?” Scarlet says in a plaintive little voice.

“I already did, Scar,” Yvie smirks.

“Oh my fucking God,” Scarlet groans in exasperation. _“Shut up.”_

Yvie throws her head back and laughs, way too amused by the joke and only fuelled by Scarlet’s reaction.

“Is it at least okay if I use the front door and don’t climb out of the window, or will that ruin the fun?” she asks when she finally calms down a little.

Scarlet just rolls her eyes and goes to put the rest of the pebbles back in an overly ostentatious manner.

Yvie shuts the window and grabs her jacket from the armchair where she shedded it after getting home from school. She puts it on as she heads out of the room, not forgetting to make sure her cigarettes and lighter are in the pocket.

There’s a curb behind Yvie’s house that had somehow become their own little place back when Scarlet’s family still lived next door. It has still continued to be just that even after Scarlet’s dad had got some big promotion at work that moved the James’ to a better part of town when Scarlet and Yvie had been halfway through middle school.

It is where they had run off to whenever one or both of their baby sisters got too annoying and they had wanted a moment of just being alone together. It is where Scarlet had tried to tan her legs, nose buried in a fashion magazine while Yvie had decided she _absolutely _needed to learn to skateboard the summer between seventh and eighth grade. It is where they had shared their very first joint at the age 15, nervous and giggly and most likely higher on the situation than the actual weed. It is where Scarlet had sat, fingers intertwined with Yvie’s when Yvie had come out six months earlier, the spring of their sophomore year, and the world had felt like it might just end then and there.

It is also where they head now, as if out of unvoiced agreement, soon as Yvie exits the house.

Yvie takes out a cigarette once they’ve found a good spot to sit, and tentatively offers the pack to Scarlet, who just gesticulates her declination. Not perplexed by it, as she rarely sees Scarlet smoking when she’s sober, Yvie just places the filter against her lower lip and steadies it between her fingers before slowly flicking the lighter. As she takes the first drag, she gives Scarlet an expectant look.

“Do you maybe wanna tell me why people are dead convinced y’all hot wired a police car?” she asks nonchalantly.

Scarlet opens her mouth and then bites the tip of her tongue, but that doesn’t prevent a little laugh escaping her. “Is that what they’re saying? Hot wiring? Oh my God, rumours are truly wilder than the reality more often than not, huh?”

Yvie hums, still examining Scarlet closely. She’s not hurt, that’s abundantly obvious by her body language and movements. She doesn’t come off particularly upset or anxious, either, or majorly bothered by anything; on the contrary, she looks happy. There’s an air of lightness about her, in her little smiles and giggles, in the crinkling of her eyes, in her easy chatter, and in the faint flush on her cheeks.

“We didn’t hot wire it,” she says, feigning seriousness.

Yvie quirks a brow at her selection of words. “But you did steal a car?”

“Steal is such a strong word, Yvie, gosh,” Scarlet lets out. “We, um. We borrowed it. We had every intention of returning it.”

“Sure,” Yvie snorts. “So, what happened?”

Scarlet crosses her legs and purses her lips contemplatively. “Let’s see. This needs a little bit of context first. So, after me and Ariel went inside, I finally found out what got her so hysterical. She’s been seeing this senior guy for a while now, Darren’s the name.”

“The one from the football team?” Yvie mumbles around the filter.

“That’s the one, yeah. He’s a fucking tool and a jerk. That’s like the worst combination if there is one. Well, she, and honestly all of us, for that matter, were under the impression that they’re, like, solid, she called him her boyfriend and all. And what happens at the party? She fucking finds out that he hasn’t been at all serious about them at any point and has just been playing her, right? Like, she’s been acting like they’re exclusive and he’s been… Ugh.”

“Poor Ariel,” Yvie grunts.

“Right? She was fucking destroyed. So, I find Brooke and Plastique, and we decide we’re getting fucked up to cheer Ari up and make her forget the bastard, you know, like girls do.”

“Obviously,” Yvie agrees sarcastically.

“And we’re dutifully getting fucked up, and there’s some senior boys with us, Plastique’s guy and a couple of his friends or something… What time did you leave the party, anyway?” Scarlet interrupts her story.

“Um, Kahanna and I left a little after midnight, I think? Or maybe it was closer to one. Around then,” Yvie shrugs and stumps out her cigarette. She pushes her hands into her jacket pockets, and then, after a moment’s hesitation, pulls out the pack and flips it open, checking how full it is. Deeming her situation good enough, she retrieves a new smoke and lights it.

“Okay, yeah, that makes sense then,” Scarlet says. “Well, it’s like past two in the morning and the party isn’t dying down the tiniest bit, right? Like there’s still music and loads of people and all that. And I guess the neighbours got pissed at that and called the police.”

“How exactly does one go from attending a party that the police intervenes with to stealing their car, mind enlightening me?” Yvie drawls in an unimpressed tone.

Scarlet laughs brightly. “_Well_, they drive to the house and get out of the car, and the group of us is like at the side of the house because we figured we’d just like let them go in and leave while they’re not watching, and we like see them get to the porch and Plastique’s Tommy or Timmy or whatever the fuck his name is goes like _‘Guys that’s fucking Darren’s dad!’_”

She imitates a low, rowdy voice, and Yvie can’t help but cackle at it. Scarlet beams at her in response, and Yvie almost chokes on cigarette smoke.

“I do not like where this is going,” she says to distract, whether herself or Scarlet, she’s not sure.

“Shh, the best part comes now,” Scarlet scolds. “So, someone, I don’t really remember who, the details get foggy after a certain point, says, _‘We should steal their car to avenge Ariel’_ and we’re all like, that’s a brilliant plan.”

“Your stellar plan to avenge Ariel was… to steal a police car?” Yvie deadpans.

“Correct.”

“What the actual fuck did you expect to achieve there, exactly?”

Yvie’s tone makes Scarlet break into contagious giggles. “I don’t know, Yvie,” she cries out with a shrug. “We were drunk and high and it felt like the perfect course of action at the time. Looking back at it, there was some, um… pretty big holes in this plan.”

“No shit,” Yvie says flatly. “How did y’all start the car, then?”

“As it turns out, Darren’s dad is as big a tool as his son, because they literally left the key in the ignition. I guess they just wanted to scare all the kids off and get out of there as soon as possible instead of actually dealing with a bunch of drunk high schoolers. So stupid, right? So Timmy-Tommy’s friend gets behind the wheel and I get in the passenger seat, and the remaining five get in the back, and we just kind of… drive off.”

“That is…” Yvie starts, but doesn’t find the right words. “How about the chase?”

“What chase?” Scarlet blinks.

“People are saying there was a chase,” Yvie explains and gets out a third cigarette. She knows she shouldn’t be chain-smoking, but it’s the only thing that keeps the waves of uneasiness somewhat at bay.

“Aw, these rumours are so much cooler than what really happened,” Scarlet whines. “Makes it sound like we were in some crazy intense action movie when in reality we drove around, talked with some lady through the walkie-talkie thingy, couldn’t figure out how to turn on the sirens for the longest while, and crashed into some stupid mailbox because Ariel thought that covering Timmy-Tommy’s friend’s eyes was a funny idea.”

Yvie rubs her temple with the heel of her palm and sighs. “This is quite possibly the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“I know,” Scarlet laughs. “It’s a little funny, though, you gotta admit.”

Yvie raises her eyebrows at Scarlet, trying to keep her expression stoic and blasé, but she doesn’t manage long before cracking up and bursting into laughter. Scarlet looks almost proud of herself, smiling at Yvie lopsidedly.

“Are you okay?” Yvie asks when her chuckles die down.

Scarlet’s face turns considerably more serious almost immediately. She draws her knees to her chest and inspects her trainers with an extraordinary amount of fascination. Then she grabs one of the laces and starts fidgeting with it, twisting it around her fingers.

“Dad was furious,” she says quietly.

“Oh, princess,” Yvie exhales.

There’s a long silence, the kind that feels much heavier than the silences between them usually do. Then Scarlet speaks again, in a whisper so small that Yvie could, _wants to_, pretend that she never heard it, that it never happened at all, that it was just the September wind rustling in the trees nearby, not actual words that leave her skin reverberating.

“They’re gonna send me away, Yvie.”

And suddenly it’s clear that she’s not at all okay, that she’s miserable, and all her joking and laughing and carelessness have just been the means to cover that up, and now her mask is cracking. Yvie’s own heart throbs like it’s been fractured right in the middle, sharply once and then dully and persistently. There’s so much she wants to ask, but she doesn’t know how to, so she doesn’t say anything at all, just wraps her arm around Scarlet’s shoulders and pulls her close. Scarlet releases a pained breath, hides her face in Yvie’s neck, and Yvie lets her be, holds her and continues smoking silently.

It’s two and a half cigarettes later that Scarlet calms down enough to detach herself from Yvie a little, resting her cheek on top of Yvie’s shoulder instead.

“Apparently it’s a Catholic boarding school in Connecticut,” she says.

“Ah, what’s a better place to raise hell than amidst a bunch of devoted children of God, then,” Yvie croaks out in a meek attempt to joke.

Scarlet chuckles despite everything, slightly hollowly, but chuckles nonetheless. She takes Yvie’s hand, the one that’s caressing her upper arm gently, and manoeuvres herself so that she’s sprawled out on the ground with her head in Yvie’s lap.

“It’ll demand some imagination if I wanna outdo myself and do something wilder than what got me sent there in the first place, huh?” she ponders aloud while she plays with Yvie’s fingers. “Not to, like, toot my own horn or anything, but stealing a police car is truly something to beat.”

“I have every bit of faith in you there,” Yvie says solemnly. “And if you ever falter, you can start by, I don’t know, booking a group of male strippers to perform at dinner or something.”

This time Scarlet lets out a full laugh, throaty and delighted, and covers her eyes with Yvie’s hand in hers. Yvie looks down at her, something tugging at the corners of her mouth and her heartstrings, and for a moment she believes that if she really tries, she can convince herself everything is just fine.

“That’s disgusting, Yvie!” Scarlet squeals. “Poor nuns will go into cardiac arrest upon seeing that or something. I’m definitely filming it and sending you the video.”

“I’m pretty sure I’ll manage without, thanks,” Yvie drawls in monotone.

“If I have to see it, you have to see it, too,” Scarlet states and goes back to gently stroking Yvie’s fingers.

Yvie grimaces, sticking her tongue out at Scarlet, and brings her other hand up to carefully tuck a strand of hair that has escaped Scarlet’s bun behind her ear. Scarlet’s eyes fall closed, and Yvie knows, logically, that she shouldn’t let the touch linger any longer, but Scarlet presses the side of her face into the contact, and instead of withdrawing, Yvie traces Scarlet’s jawline with her fingers.

“Maybe,” Scarlet starts, and then pauses to wet her lips. “Maybe it’s an old building and I’ll find some secret passageway that leads all the way off of the property.”

“Maybe,” Yvie echoes softly.

She places her fingertips against the side of Scarlet’s neck and swipes her thumb over her cheekbone. Scarlet’s lids flutter open, and she looks up at Yvie, her pupils so very black against the lilting blue-grey of her irises, and Yvie isn’t sure whether Scarlet’s stare is fixed on her own eyes or on her mouth. Almost self-conscious, she crushes her lower lip between her teeth, and Scarlet gasps, her own lips parting slightly.

There’s really no excuse for the way Yvie slips her thumb down Scarlet’s cheek. There isn’t one either for the way she puts it against Scarlet’s hot breath, and there _definitely _isn’t one for the way she drags it over Scarlet’s pouty mouth, pressing down a little as she goes.

But then again, there’s really no excuse for the way Scarlet puckers up when Yvie reaches the centre of her upper lip, planting a ghost of a kiss against the pad of Yvie’s thumb.

Yvie can think of approximately a dozen reasons why she shouldn’t close the distance between the two of them, not the least of them being that this is her straight friend Scarlet, who’s likely in some sort of shock right now, and she’s leaving, and there’s no room for loose ends when they should be pursuing closures, but… Scarlet’s mouth is so pink and pretty and enticing, and her breathing keeps hitching, just barely, and Yvie wouldn’t probably be able to tell if she weren’t so near, and Scarlet doesn’t break off their eye contact, and Yvie…

Yvie frames Scarlet’s chin with the length of her thumb and leans in, squeezes her eyes closed and slots their lips together before she can think the better of it. Scarlet exhales an _Oh_ into the impact, and it doesn’t sound surprised like she didn’t see it coming, more like she can’t believe it did. And then she’s suddenly reciprocating, kissing back, fitting Yvie’s plump bottom lip between her own and lightly grazing it with her teeth.

As Scarlet’s tongue starts pressing against Yvie’s teeth, Yvie pulls away, dazed and tingly and remorseful. There’s a short moment of Scarlet pushing her chin out as if to chase the contact, but then Yvie straightens up completely and Scarlet doesn’t follow. Her eyes stay shut, and she sucks her lower lip into her mouth slowly, and Yvie watches her just a tiny while.

Then she tears her gaze away and lights another cigarette and does everything not to think.

*

“They’ll be here any minute now.”

Yvie hums and shoves her hands deeper into her pockets, pushing her jacket closed in the front with the movement.

“There’s still time,” Scarlet continues, and the defiance in her tone is putting up a good fight with the hesitancy that’s creeping in through the cracks. “They’re probably just running late.”

“Yeah, princess,” Yvie agrees, even though her heart isn’t in it.

It’s a miserable day, in every way imaginable. It’s rainy and grey and cold. The wind feels like it’s seeping deep into Yvie’s bones and settling there in the form of an icy weight, and the moisture of the air only makes it all the more freezing. Also, there’s the small matter of it being the day Scarlet leaves for Connecticut.

Scarlet and Yvie are standing on the train platform, just the two of them and Scarlet’s enormous luggage. Scarlet’s parents are some distance away, according to their words to give the girls some privacy, even though Yvie suspects it’s just an excuse — Scarlet hasn’t exactly been secretive about the fact things have been strained between all of them lately.

Yvie’s restless, craves nicotine but doesn’t want to smoke with the James’ right there, watching them closely as if Scarlet will bolt if they don’t.

Scarlet’s restless, too, has been fidgety and high-strung ever since Yvie arrived, and Yvie doesn’t know how to comfort her, doesn’t know what to say to ease either of their mind, doesn’t even know where they stand.

“Where are they? They should be here by now,” Scarlet says, and if Yvie tries hard enough, she can pretend that the sound of the raindrops against the roof of the platform drowns out the notes of hysteria in Scarlet’s tone.

Scarlet’s expecting the rest of her friends, claims that they promised to be here, that they wouldn’t let her board the train without saying goodbye. However, time’s running out, and there’s no sign of Ariel, Brooke, or Plastique, and Yvie’s stomach turns with unpleasant suspicions.

“Scar, maybe they—”

“They’re coming,” Scarlet snaps. “They promised.”

Yvie looks at her, swallows against the lump in her throat, and tries and tries and fails to ignore the way her insides hurt with anxiety and something else. “Okay, princess,” she mouths and it’s barely even a whisper.

“I’m sorry,” Scarlet breathes out. “I’m, I… I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to snap.”

“Hey, it’s alright,” Yvie says and shakes her hands out of the pockets, spreading her arms in order to invite Scarlet into a hug.

Scarlet softens visibly and accepts, snakes her arms around Yvie’s middle and nuzzles her face into Yvie’s chest. Yvie envelops her, too, places her lips against the crown of Scarlet head, and then, before it can feel like a kiss, lays her chin on the spot gently instead.

“I just thought… They’re my friends, you know? They’re my friends and I just… They promised,” Scarlet mumbles against Yvie’s sweatshirt.

“I know,” Yvie murmurs. “I’m so sorry, princess.”

“Yeah, it’s whatever.” She breaks the embrace and checks the watch on her wrist. “My train will be here soon.”

They stare at each other after that, neither of them moving or saying anything, and Yvie doesn’t know whether she’d like the moment to stretch out indefinitely or break already. It feels like the seconds right before the fall on a rollercoaster, like she wishes it’d tip over not because it’ll be pleasant but because she wants it to be done with.

And then it does break, as Scarlet tilts her head slightly and Yvie’s stomach drops.

“Is this weird? This feels weird,” Scarlet says.

“I don’t know, does it?” Yvie chuckles nervously. “I’ve never had to say goodbye before.”

Scarlet smiles, and it shatters some of the tension. “Me neither. It fucking sucks.”

“It really does, huh?” Yvie groans, and this time when the two of them laugh, it’s more or less genuine.

“Scarlet, honey, your train!” Mrs. James calls as her husband approaches to grab Scarlet’s suitcases.

Scarlet glances over her shoulder at the tracks, and then turns back to Yvie.

“Well, I gotta go.”

“Give ‘em hell,” Yvie says through the squeezing sensation in her heart.

Scarlet laughs and starts walking backwards, her eyes still fixed on Yvie. “I’ll miss you, Yves.”

“I’ll miss you too, princess.”

Scarlet waves and then turns on her heels just as the train comes to a stop with a loud screech of metal against metal. Yvie stays immobilised where she is, and watches Scarlet hug her dad briefly, then spend a much longer while in her mother’s arms, and then get ushered aboard by the two. The door slides closed slowly behind her, and Scarlet turns to look at the platform, her face pensive, and that’s the last Yvie sees of her.


	2. Where the Beginning of the End Began

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two relatively short chapters in a month? Who is she? I haven’t got the faintest but I sure hope she stays and keeps this up.
> 
> This is where the story actually begins, so buckle up and let’s get into it. A massive thank you to Jazz (@artificial-jazz), who has the endless patience to correct my blind mistakes and be the loveliest angel while doing it, and to Frey (@freykitten), who is way too nice and gentle with me and makes me soft with her praises. Girls, without you I’m nothing.
> 
> I’m @scarletenvynyc on tumblr, please come say hi and tell me what you thought, the reception that the first chapter got really motivated me to bang this one out faster !

Yvie rolls from side to side and begins to slowly wake up, becoming increasingly more aware of her surroundings. Yawning, she cracks her eyes open, squints at the daylight feebly seeping through the sheer curtains and the sloppily closed blinds on the window, and then takes in the figure lying next to her.

She’s facing away from Yvie, still asleep, judging by the steadiness and depth of her breathing. The sheets are draped over the exquisite curve of her hip, which leaves her naked back visible, obscured only by the tousled locks of her blonde hair.

Yvie shifts her own hips, rubbing her unclad thighs together under the covers, and traces her tongue along her upper lip. Then she glances over her shoulder at the alarm clock on the nightstand and groans softly. However, the digits on the screen don’t capitulate, and Yvie sighs and flips around, throwing her legs over the edge of the bed and begrudgingly getting up.

The floor heating is on, just warm enough for it to feel nice on Yvie’s bare feet. With another huge yawn, she stretches her back and limbs, cracking her neck and rolling her shoulders. When her body is done waking up, she heads for the en suite to shower, pulling her thin silk camisole over her head and pushing her panties down as she goes, carelessly dropping both garments on the floor without stopping.

Once she’s showered, Yvie turns the air conditioning on to clear the foggy mirrors while she moisturises. As she brushes out her hair, she notices how much her roots have grown out, and makes a mental note to call her hairdresser to get her extensions retouched. She’s not sure if the liquid lipstick she applies is initially even hers, but this shade of maroon suits her skin and compliments the dark tones of her eye makeup, so she doesn’t dwell on it.

The bedroom is empty when she exits the bathroom, and the trail of her discarded clothes isn’t there anymore, either. Yvie absently throws her fluffy towel on the chair by the dresser and starts roaming through one of the drawers for something to wear.

She’s in a bra, fiddling with the fly and button of her black skinny jeans when she finally thinks to pick up her iPhone off the bedside table. Trying to do her belt up one-handed, she checks through the notifications from the bottom up. Kahanna’s texted her to tell about some guy she’s hooked up with in Berlin, but most of them are from the work group chat where Aja has done her utmost to convince everyone she _could’ve went to Harvard _had she wanted to. Yvie rolls her eyes at her antics and keeps scrolling, only to find that Dahlia has messaged her privately an hour ago or so, saying that her fever has only worsened overnight and swearing she’ll get someone to cover her shift tonight.

Abandoning her half-assed attempts at buckling the belt, Yvie types out a quick reply to Dahlia, telling her not to worry about it and get well soon, and that she’ll take care of everything. Then she shoots a quick _Anyone fancy some extra money? All you gotta do is cover the closing shift tonight lol _to the group chat even though she suspects it won’t breed any desired results. As she sees Aja starting to type, she locks her phone quickly, and finally gets the belt. Throwing on a black dress shirt, she leaves the room.

There’s a distinct smell of fresh coffee lingering in the apartment, and Yvie follows it into the large, open kitchen, buttoning her shirt as she goes.

“Morning, Broo bear,” she murmurs as she enters the space.

Brooke drops to her feet from her position on her tiptoes, the coffee mug she was fishing from one of the cupboards in hand, and turns to face Yvie. She’s wearing a short, red dressing gown. It is tied tightly around her and accentuates her slender waist, and it’s glaringly obvious she’s completely nude under it, her nipples poking through the delicate satin and catching on it with every slightest shift. Her long hair is in a messy, loose bun on top of her head now, and her face is free of any makeup.

“Morning, babe,” she drawls and steps forward to peck Yvie’s lips, light and careful not to smudge the makeup. “Nice lipstick,” she adds playfully and pinches Yvie’s ass.

“I wasn’t sure if it’s yours or mine,” Yvie hums and leans past Brooke to grab a mug for herself.

“It’s mine,” Brooke says and passes Yvie the coffee pot, reaching into the fridge for her skinny milk. “But it kinda looks hotter on you anyway.”

“Kinda? Geez, thanks, babe, that’s generous,” Yvie deadpans.

Brooke snorts out a breathy laugh and sits down at the table with her coffee and oatmeal. Yvie rolls her eyes, fixing herself a bowl of cereal before she joins Brooke, taking the seat across from her.

“You’re up late,” she notes conversationally.

“Uh-hmm,” Brooke hums into her mug and then sets it down. “Sean is nitpicking the corps de ballet this morning and doesn’t really need us principals until later, so I decided to sleep in for once.” She glances at the time on the oven. “You’re ready early,” she remarks with a chuckle.

“Yeah, we’ve got quite a big delivery coming in today, and I thought I’d get a look at the next month’s rota before we receive it. I might have to stay pretty late though. Dahlia’s sick. I asked if anyone can cover for her, but I doubt anyone wants to give up their night off, so I’ll probably just do it myself.”

Brooke wrinkles her nose. “Does that mean you want to take the car? I was planning to drive today. And I _hate_ that there’s no garage by the club, leaving a car that expensive on a street is way too unsafe, especially at night. _Especially_ in that neighbourhood.”

“Nah, I’ll take the subway, don’t worry about it,” Yvie brushes her off.

“I won’t be able to pick you up, though. We have an extra rehearsal tomorrow morning, so I’ll need to be at the studio early. They’re really busting our asses with this premiere coming up. And I want to go for a run before it. There’s no way I’m staying up that late,” Brooke informs her.

“That’s fine,” Yvie sighs. “I’ll take a cab or something.”

Brooke presses her lips into a thin line and scans Yvie’s face, then sips her coffee. “You don’t do that many closing shifts anymore,” she says. “Honestly, I’ve gotten a little unused to it.”

“Yeah, it’s been a while, eh?” Yvie agrees with a shrug. “Can’t leave them understaffed on a Friday, though, they’ll fucking die. Thus is the life of a manager, you know.”

“Just be careful at night. Get home safely,” Brooke orders.

“Yes, ma’am,” Yvie says and salutes jokingly. When Brooke shoots her a look paired with a quirked brow and pursed lip, she gently nudges her with her foot under the table and adds, “Of course I’ll be careful, baby. You don’t need to worry.”

Brooke softens visibly and nods, clicking the side of her foot against Yvie’s ankle and flashing Yvie a smile before going back to her coffee.

They finish their breakfast in relative silence, interrupted only by one of them making a random comment here and there and the other humming or chuckling in response. As soon as they’re done, Yvie loads their dishes into the washer while Brooke disappears to get dressed. She’s in the en suite, doing her hair up into a much neater bun when Yvie pops into the bedroom to grab her backpack.

“Have a nice day, Broo bear,” she says, pushing her head through the open door of the bathroom.

Brooke mumbles something incomprehensible around the bobby pins between her lips, and offers Yvie her cheek. Yvie reaches farther into the room, hanging off the doorframe on her arms and pecks Brooke quickly before collecting her earbuds and phone and rushing into the hallway to throw on her red suede jacket.

Upper East Side is, as always, alive and noisy and busy as Yvie steps out of the building and thanks the doorman with a brief smile. Glancing up at the skyscrapers surrounding her, she readjusts her backpack on her shoulders and lights a cigarette, then starts toward the subway to begin her commute to Brooklyn.

*

“Ma, this is fucking bullshit! Who puts pipes outside the ceiling, and not, like, inside it?”

“Aja, _please_ get off the table,” Yvie groans, spinning her keys around her index finger and catching them into her fist.

“Bitch, I can’t,” says the lilac-haired woman. “I need to get this bra, but it’s stuck in these fucking pipes.”

Yvie has barely come through the doors of the club, only to find one of her employees — who just so happens to also be her friend, unfortunately — standing on a table to the right of the dance floor. She has a mop in her hand and her head thrown back, and she’s staring at something above her. As Yvie cocks her head to the side curiously, Aja vigorously smashes the stick of the mop against the pipes covering the ceiling, creating an ear-piercingly loud clanging noise, and Yvie promptly decides that her bullshit capacity is full for the day. She’s tired.

“And how exactly did your bra end up stuck in our ceiling pipes?” she asks incredulously and stops closer to the bar counter, lifting her gaze to try and spot the undergarment in question.

“It’s better you don’t know,” says a voice behind Yvie. She looks over her shoulder and finds Kameron crouched in front of one of the fridges, stocking it up.

“Ma, it’s not my bra,” Aja shrieks. “I mean, it is _my_ bra, but it’s not, like, the bra I’m wearing. Like, this is a bra I have, but it’s not on me right now, obviously,” she blabbers and tugs her shirt up to prove the fact. “Seriously, why are these pipes out here? This would’ve never happened if they were _inside_ the ceiling like they’re supposed to be. This some bullshit architecture.”

_Harvard, huh?_ Yvie mouths at Kameron, who almost chokes trying to suppress her laughter. Aja pays them no mind, most likely because she doesn’t hear their giggles over her adamant banging. Yvie shakes her head with a sigh and rounds the counter, pushing into the backroom through the swing door.

“Kam, is there any coffee in there?” she shouts while she shrugs off her jacket and hangs it on the rack.

“Yup, just made some,” Kameron responds at the same time as Aja calls something or someone _You little mothafuckah_.

Yvie tosses her backpack on the chair in front of the desk where all her papers and work laptop are, and strides back to the front of house. Kameron is now organising one of the refrigerator sinks on the counter, and there’s coffee in the pot as promised. Yvie unbuttons the cuffs on her sleeves and rolls them up to her elbows, then pours herself a cup.

“I’ll be back here,” she informs Kameron, walking backwards toward the swing door and receiving a peace sign in reply.

She’s just gotten through the work emails when a self-satisfied looking Aja finally appears in the backroom. She sets the mop against one of the shelves instead of taking it to the cleaning supply closet, and drops her bag on the floor next to a work surface after fishing a Redbull out of it. Then she plants her palms on the steel and pushes herself up on her arms to sit on top of the countertop, drawing her legs up to cross them.

“So, wanna tell me what you did to that bra?” Yvie smirks, opening the rota app on her laptop.

Aja looks up from the can she’s trying to open without breaking one of her long nails. “Sis,” she starts with a grandiose inhale, as if she’s going to go on a tangent. Then she holds a theatrical pause, and exhales, “Absolutely fucking not.”

“Fair enough,” Yvie says with a snort, and unlocks her phone in order to check the group chat in faint hope that someone has changed their mind and wants to come in tonight after all. Unsurprisingly, she is not that lucky. “I’ll be closing with you today.”

“Bitch, nice. Honey’s here till the end, too, ain’t she? Will be fun.”

Yvie glances at the schedule on her laptop screen and produces a confirming noise. Then she scrolls down and fixes her attention on the raw skeleton of the next month’s rota.

“Whatchu doin’? Rota?” Aja asks and Yvie repeats the noise. “Good, Val is throwing her annual pre-Halloween party, and you and me are going, so you should make sure we’re off that day.”

“Cool, we haven’t been out in ages. What day is that?” Yvie asks, still staring at the screen and absently playing with her septum ring.

“Thursday the week before Halloween.”

“Hold on,” Yvie frowns and grabs her phone again, opening the calendar app. “Fuck, Aj, no, I can’t go. Brooke has some alumni thing at Juilliard that night, and I promised her I’d go with her… Don’t roll your eyes.”

“Ma, you’re not even looking at me, how do you know what I’m doing with my eyes?” Aja huffs.

“You’re rolling them so hard I can hear you.”

“Fuck right off,” Aja says in a scandalised tone. “This is bullshit, Yves. We’ve gone every year for like, what, four years now? It’s a tradition, bitch. You’re not bailing. Besides, you said yourself, we haven’t been out in forever. I miss seeing you out in the normal world. Do you even exist outside of this club? Is your soul trapped in here? Is that it, Yvie? Blink twice if you’re being kept captive.”

“Oh, shut the fuck up,” Yvie laughs. “You know I would love to go get absolutely trashed, but this is important to Brooke, and we R.S.V.P’d weeks ago.”

“And this is important to you, bitch,” Aja says. “You’re, like, a Halloween queen, and this is _our_ thing.”

“Aj, we’re talking about an alumni event at her alma mater. It’s not even comparable to me wanting to party. Sometimes you gotta prioritise your girlfriend’s stuff,” Yvie groans apologetically. “I’m sorry.”

Aja drums her nails against the side of the can and scoffs loudly. “Sis, I’d take you saying that shit seriously if she prioritised your shit even once.”

“That’s nonsense,” Yvie says and turns to face Aja, propping her elbow on the desk and leaning her cheek against her knuckles. “Brooke prioritises my shit all the time.”

Aja pushes her upper lip out and quirks her eyebrow at Yvie, and Yvie flips her off playfully.

“Fuck you, Aja,” she laughs. “What do you want her to do? Come to the club to see how I manage it? It’s not like I’m getting my art displayed in galleries or anything like that.”

“Hey, you’ve done great with the club. It’s… What’s the word? Prospering. You have a prosperous lil club in your hands here, sis.”

Yvie snorts humourlessly and spins the chair around. “Listen, I know you’re not, like, Brooke’s biggest fan, but she’s my girlfriend and I love her. I’m going to her thing.”

Aja opens her mouth to undoubtedly argue with whatever point she disagrees on this time, but before she can, she’s interrupted by Kameron’s ass pushing the door open and backing up into the room. Aja immediately forgets what she was about to say, and Yvie is thankful for the distraction. It’s not like Aja and her don’t have this exact discussion or some variation of it at least once a week. Frankly, Yvie wouldn’t take it from anyone else, but Aja is just as abrasive, opinionated, and straightforward as Yvie herself, and doesn’t flinch when Yvie tells her that her hot takes are bullshit. Also, she kind of happens to be one of Yvie’s best friends, and one of the first ones she made after moving to the city. So it all works, in some weird way.

“Delivery, ladies,” Kameron announces and sets down the cardboard box she was carrying. “There’s a lot of shit. Who’s gonna help me?”

“Aja, go help her,” Yvie commands.

“Ma, I’m not on the clock yet,” Aja says instantly.

“Respectfully, what the hell are you doing here then?” Kameron asks with a raised brow.

“I dunno, I was bored at home so I decided to come hang,” Aja shrugs.

“You’re a nuisance, you know that, right?” Yvie exhales in exasperation and throws a pen in Aja’s general direction. Aja nods with a shit-eating grin, and Yvie rolls her eyes, turning to Kameron. “I’ll be right there to help, Kam, just gonna finish this up real quick and give Aja a couple extra closing shifts next month.”

*

Yvie’s in the middle of stocking up the shelves behind the bar when Aja sticks her head out of the backroom.

“Yves, tonight’s DJ just called, she wants to stop by and drop off some shit,” she says.

“Cool,” Yvie hums and tears the plastic off of a Redbull multipack, shoving them into the fridge individually for easier grabs. “Did you tell her she can come whenever?”

“Yah, she said she’ll be here in like thirty,” Aja nods and Yvie flashes her a thumbs-up.

She’s breaking and folding the empty cardboard boxes and picking up the plastic wraps she’s haphazardly discarded on the floor while unpacking when she hears Aja say something indistinguishable loudly, then someone else reply in a quieter, almost monotone drawl, and then Aja burst into her manic scream-laughter.

Straightening up, Yvie tosses the trash in her hand into the garbage can and pushes her hair out of her face with her wrist. As she wheels around toward the sounds, she sees Aja approach with a curvaceous blonde carrying a small duffel bag. Her long hair is in a sleek ponytail and she wears an unzipped pink jacket over a sweater, paired with a floor-length skirt. She’s motioning with her hand languidly as she speaks to Aja, the corner of her mouth curled in an entertained smirk. She’s undeniably attractive, definitely the kind of woman Yvie finds her gaze being drawn toward very often.

While Yvie stares, Aja and the woman reach the bar and stop on the other side of it. Aja jumps on one of the stools, resting her elbows on the counter and ogling Yvie over it, and the blonde bends slightly to deposit her bag on the ground and then stands next to her, hands now buried in the pockets of her jacket.

“Boss, this is DJ, Vladonna. DJ, this is boss,” Aja introduces, waving vaguely between Yvie and the woman.

The DJ shakes one hand out of her pocket and extends it Yvie’s way, and Yvie scrambles to wipe her palms on her jeans, more out of habit than any dire necessity, and shakes.

“You can call me Pearl,” the woman flatlines just as monotonously as she had when talking with Aja. “Vladonna’s just a stage name. Or booth name, I guess, since that’s where I mostly perform.”

“Nice to meet you, Pearl, I’m Yvie. We’ve emailed back and forth,” Yvie says, sliding her hands into the back pockets of her jeans. “I’ve been to your gigs here and there, mostly around Brooklyn, I really love your stuff. So stoked for tonight.”

Pearl smiles, biting down on her plump bottom lip as if to contain herself. “Aw, thank you. And thanks for having me.” She shifts a little and gestures at her feet, or, presumably, her bag. “I figured I’d come check out the place since I’ve never been here before, so I’m not completely clueless later and don’t need to bother you guys. Figured I’d also drop off my shit while I’m at it. It’s mostly just some cords and stuff.”

“Yeah, that’s perfectly fine. You can leave them in the back or in the booth, whichever. I reckon Aja can show you around and all the equipment,” Yvie says and shoots Aja a questioning look.

“Yeah, sis,” Aja murmurs and slips off the stool.

“You think it’s cool if I bring a couple friends tonight?” Pearl asks.

“Sure,” Yvie shrugs. “Just give Aja their names and we'll leave them at the door. Aja can get you your drink tickets, too.”

“Fabulous,” Pearl drawls, her smirk appearing again. “You’re a star.”

She collects her belongings and wiggles her fingers at Yvie before following Aja toward the DJ booth and falling right back into lively conversation with her. Yvie spares them one last glance and goes back to work.

*

“Aja, we need more ice.”

“Okay, gimme just a second,” Aja yells over the music and reaches past Yvie to collect empty glasses, piling them atop each other swiftly.

“Bring more napkins while you’re at it,” Yvie adds, equally loudly, replacing the empty napkin dispenser on the counter with one of the full ones stored on the working surface, her other hand blindly locating a bottle of vodka, fingers wrapping around the neck.

“Roger that,” Aja nods and disappears into the backroom.

The night started out extremely high-volume, thrusting the whole team headfirst into rushed action, and it has continued to proceed in that tempo, like Fridays do. Yvie’s manning the bar with Willam and Jackie either side of her, and Aja is running around, stocking up whatever happens to run out and simultaneously helping the busboy twink whose name Yvie can’t seem to memorise. She’s not sure about anybody else’s whereabouts, but she really hopes they’re alright and well and, in Honey’s case, behaving.

She lifts the bottle from the refrigerator sink and tosses it upwards lightly to adjust her grip on it, and scoops up two shot glasses. Slamming them on the counter in front of the guy whose order she just took, she fills them with the liquor and then drops the bottle back, sidestepping toward her register to ring the total in. The guy hands one of the shots to somebody behind him, his other elbow perched on the wooden surface of the bar as he holds a twenty-dollar bill out for Yvie between two of his fingers.

“What can I get you?” Yvie shouts, grabbing the bill and shifting her gaze to the next customer, a bald woman with huge earrings, while her hands automatically collect the guy’s change. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Aja ripping a plastic bag of ice open and emptying it into the sink.

“A vodka cranberry, please,” the woman says, getting on her tiptoes and craning her neck to be heard over all the noise.

The club is loud and alive and buzzing, just the way Yvie initially fell in love with it and has continued to love best. Regardless of how used to seeing the space empty and with the lights on she is, it always feels eerily alien compared to this state, the electrifying and thrilling atmosphere of it.

Pearl’s fantastic, just like Yvie knew she’d be when she had decided they needed to book her. The beat she’s playing is pulsing through the air, and Yvie is unsure whether it’s also seeping into the cavity of her chest, causing her heartbeat to increase, or if it’s just the palpitations from all the coffee and the two Redbulls she had earlier.

She measures a shot of vodka and pours it into a glass over ice, and then grabs a cranberry juice carton and gives it a little shake before finishing the drink.

“That’s seven dollars,” she says and sets the glass on the counter.

The woman hands Yvie a debit card, and Yvie rapidly punches the button for _vodka + mixer_ on the screen of her register prior to taking it from her and retrieving the card reader. As she waits for the device to connect, she briefly casts her eyes up to register the next customer, a redhead who is animatedly chatting with someone beside her, facing away from Yvie.

“Shall I use contactless?” she asks when the screen lights up with the instruction to _insert your card_. Then she quickly glances at the redhead again, and deliberately raises her voice, “And for you?”

The bald woman nods, and Yvie presses her card against the reader, waiting for it to start printing the receipts to signify that the transaction is through.

“Hello, can I please get a Pabst Blue Ribbon on ice?”

Yvie freezes mid-movement, the merchant’s copy of the receipt in hand and the card reader still spitting out the customer’s. The voice is vaguely familiar, the breathy lilt of it, the purr-like timbre — but in the city of millions, that alone is hardly a happenstance. What really stalls Yvie is the unmistakable uniqueness of the order, the recognisable uncommonness. She’s heard these exact words before, never behind the counter, not in years, but the fact doesn’t stop her heart sinking with hopeless hope, a flicker of the flame she thought had gone out over half a decade ago.

Suddenly all too aware of her body, Yvie presses her tongue against the back of her teeth and slowly puts the paper slip in her hand on the receipt spike next to the register. Then, just as unhurriedly, she rips the customer’s copy off and gives it and the card to the woman. Setting the reader down, she releases a deep exhale and finally looks up.

She’s already staring at Yvie, eyes wide and mouth forming a neat little ‘o’, red lips perfectly pouty. It appears as if she’s stilled abruptly, too, and as they lock gazes, it’s like the two of them are immobilised while the world just keeps on happening around them without slowing down or giving a damn about the fact Yvie’s whole body is tingling and her breath catching. She swallows harshly and opens her mouth, but the words get stuck in her throat.

“Oh, my God,” the redhead says. “Yvie?”

And it’s not like there was any ambiguity or doubt that it’s her, but hearing her say the name seems to kickstart Yvie’s ability to function once again.

“I cannot fucking believe you still do that shit, Scarlet,” she croaks, a dumbfounded smile tugging at her lips.

Scarlet’s hands fly up and she covers the lower part of her face, taking the tiniest step back. She blinks at Yvie, and then breaks into disbelieving giggles.

“Oh my God,” she yelps.

“Oh my God,” Yvie repeats, still smiling like an idiot, feeling her cheeks start to hurt, and spreads her arms in the air hesitantly. “Oh my God?”

“Oh my God!” Scarlet exclaims with another gale of amazed laughter and bounces up and down on her feet. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“I work here!” Yvie grins and gestures around, then at Scarlet. “What the fuck are _you _doing here?”

“I am… My friend, I’m here to support my friend, she is up there, playing. She is the DJ. Oh my God, I can’t believe it’s you!” Scarlet stutters and launches forward.

Presuming by the way she suddenly gets a little taller, she steps on the rail circling the bar. Then she leans in and beckons Yvie closer, and Yvie, without much thought, reaches over the counter and envelops her in a hug. Their position is awkward and far from comfortable, but Scarlet slings her arms around Yvie’s shoulders and manages to pull her nearer somehow, and all Yvie knows how to do is hide her face in the crook of Scarlet’s neck and inhale her fragrance.

“This is _in-sane!_” Scarlet squeals and lets go of Yvie, dropping back on the floor. “Can you take a break or something?”

The question snaps Yvie out of her stupor-like state and makes her remember her surroundings and how massively unprofessional she’s acting right now. She shakes her head as if to clear it and looks around, spotting Aja nearby, exchanging empty bottles of hard liquor for full ones.

“Yeah, of course,” she tells Scarlet and then turns back to Aja. “Hey Aj? I’ll need you to take over for a minute.”

Aja glances between her and Scarlet uninterestedly and nods, lowering the bottle she was occupied with into the fridge sink and immediately catching the attention of the next customer, hands and mouth working on some kind of super speed. Yvie motions for Scarlet to follow her on the other side of the counter and heads toward the door of the backroom, untying her apron as she goes.

It takes Scarlet a little longer to reach the end of the counter, as she’s forced to push through the thick mass of people, but as soon as Yvie sees her again, she swiftly places her hand on the small of Scarlet’s back and guides her through the door, breaking the contact when they’re in the backroom.

Completely unbothered, Scarlet throws herself into Yvie’s arms, her little body colliding against Yvie’s as she once again flings her arms around Yvie’s shoulders. Almost instinctively, Yvie snakes her own arms around Scarlet’s middle and squeezes gently, still lightheaded on the overpowering feeling of surprise.

“God, there’s so much I want to ask I don’t even know where to start,” she murmurs.

“I can assure you I want to ask you all the same things,” Scarlet says, her voice sounding spaced out and dreamy.

Yvie leans back just enough to be able to look down at Scarlet. “You want to ask me what I had for dinner last night?” she flatlines.

“Oh my fucking God,” Scarlet screeches with a high-pitched laugh and pulls away, swatting at Yvie half-heartedly. “I see your sense of humour is still as terrible,” she groans.

Yvie shrugs and grins idiotically, eyes already studying the woman in front of her. She’s older, of course she is, in a way that looks like she’s now fully grown into her features. She’s undeniably gorgeous, maybe even more so than Yvie remembers her, but perhaps it’s more about Yvie’s memories fading over the years than her beauty actually sharpening. She wears a short gold sequin dress, its thin straps laying across her collarbones delicately, paired with high open-toe heels. Her long hair is straightened perfectly, and in the bright backroom lighting, it’s suddenly clear it’s a gorgeous shade of strawberry blonde rather than red.

“Your hair,” she exhales.

“Uh-huh,” Scarlet muses and rakes her fingers through it. “I got tired of bleaching it so I let my natural colour grow out. _Your _hair, though!”

“Yeah,” Yvie chuckles and turns her head a bit to show Scarlet her tiny ponytail. “I got white girl extensions, can you believe?”

“It looks good,” Scarlet smiles. “God, this is so crazy.”

“_I know_. I need a smoke. Let’s go out for a bit?” Yvie huffs.

She wheels around to grab her jacket from the rack, and then, fixing Scarlet’s flimsy dress a single glance, hands it to her, opting for one of their company hoodies instead. She’s adjusting the collar when she turns back to Scarlet, and the sight of her in Yvie’s jacket causes Yvie’s heart to skip a beat. She clears her throat awkwardly and points at the back exit, prompting Scarlet to go on and following her, only curtly pausing to snatch her cigarettes and lighter from where she left them on her desk.

Scarlet fiddles with the lock, and as it clicks, Yvie outstretches her arm past her to push the heavy steel door open. The night is clear and slightly brisk, its crispiness a welcome contrast to the stale air of the club. Scarlet steps out, tugging the jacket closed at the front, and Yvie makes sure to leave the loose brick they use for this very purpose between the door to prevent it shutting completely.

She slumps against the wall not too far away from the door and flips the pack open, extending it Scarlet’s way in a silent offer.

“Oh, no thanks, I don’t smoke.” Scarlet shakes her head and then adds, with a glint in her eyes, “Not nicotine, at least. Y’know.”

“That’s an interesting way of admitting you smoke meth, Scarlet,” Yvie notes, deadpanned, and tugs out a cigarette.

“Shut _up_!” Scarlet laughs.

Yvie shoots her a smirk and tries to steady her inexplicably shaking hands to flick the spark wheel on her lighter. In the meantime, Scarlet nuzzles deeper into the jacket and shakes her arms until the sleeves that are way too long for her slide down and cover her fingertips. The level of comfort and familiarity with which she treats the garment feels simultaneously ensuring and absurd.

“This is literally nuts,” Scarlet repeats and Yvie glances at her over the flame she’s finally managed to spark up. “I’ve never been here before, and I wasn’t even going to come but then I had a shitty day at work and decided I deserve to unwind. What a crazy coincidence, isn’t it?”

“You said Pearl’s your friend?”

“Oh ya, she’s like my best friend,” Scarlet says enthusiastically. “We even used to live together, but then she found Violet and God knows I love them both but hearing them be all gross and couple-y was just too much, so I had to move out.”

Yvie holds her cigarette between her index and middle fingers and uses her thumb to scratch the tip of her nose. “I see. I met her earlier today, she seemed cool.”

“She’s a doll,” Scarlet agrees. “God, how long has it been? Like nine years or something? I had _no_ idea you’re in New York City! How did you end up here?”

Yvie blows out a cloud of smoke and jerks her head toward the door they just exited. “Got accepted into an art school and thought that’s what I wanna do, but turns out it was just like high school, only with richer, more pretentious classmates and with more rigid assignments, so I dropped out and found myself climbing the ladder in this shithole. Now I manage the place, and it’s become _my_ shithole.”

“And here I was under the impression you didn’t like parties,” Scarlet pokes, a playful spark in her eye.

“Yeah,” Yvie mumbles around the filter. “Turns out I didn’t like straight parties. Oddly, I’m massively okay with the gay ones.”

Scarlet lets her head fall back and releases a delighted laugh. “Mood.”

“How about you?” Yvie asks before taking another drag.

“I went to FIT, not straight away, but eventually,” Scarlet chirps, and Yvie isn’t able to suppress a smile at the thought of how well she can imagine Scarlet at the Fashion Institute of Technology. “And then I ended up doing absolutely nothing with my degree and instead ended up working in a women’s shelter. It’s not, like, the most traditional career out there, but honestly I love it so much. Where do you live?”

Yvie feels positively taken aback by Scarlet’s occupation, but before she can react, her heart gives a little nervous jolt at Scarlet’s next question and she takes a long drag prior to speaking. “Um, Manhattan,” she says vaguely, knowing that disclosing the more precise location will induce questions she’s not yet ready for.

“Ooh, I lived in Lower East Side for like a year or so but then my lease was up and I kinda missed Brooklyn so now I’m back here,” Scarlet blabbers and Yvie releases a tiny sigh of relief when she doesn’t press the theme further.

She bites the inside of her cheek and regards Scarlet with a warm sensation in her chest. It’s all so sudden and unexpected and overwhelming, and Yvie feels like her brain hasn’t quite caught up with her yet, hasn’t processed that this is _actually _Scarlet in front of her, in flesh and very real and touchable, but underneath all of her bewilderment, there’s excitement rising and taking over little by little.

It really has been nine years, like Scarlet had reminisced, since they last saw each other on that miserable rainy day towards the end of September when they said goodbye on the train platform. It’s been a little less than nine years since Yvie waited and waited and hoped that Scarlet would come home in the summer between their junior and senior years, and a little less than nine years since Scarlet never showed up, no explanation, no nothing. And it’s been a hell of a lot less than nine years since Yvie wondered, if just in passing, whatever happened to the girl next door who always was but never quite became anything more.

“You never came back,” she blurts out.

“Huh?” Scarlet frowns.

“The summer after our junior year. You never came back home. Where did you go?”

“Oh,” Scarlet lets out in a realisation. “Oh, that’s a long story… Hey, you said you’re the manager? Can you, like, get out of here? Come catch up with me over some late night sandwiches and fries, maybe?”

Yvie can’t help but chuckle at the mischievous little expression Scarlet is sporting. “God, I wish, but one of my girls is sick and I’m covering for her so I’ll be stuck here for hours still. I would legit kill for fries right now.”

“Aw,” Scarlet whines and pushes her lower lip out. “Okay, but we _must_ catch up soonest, yeah? Let’s grab a lunch or something next week. Come on, let me give you my number. I am _not_ losing you again, nah-uh.”

Yvie rests her cigarette between her lips and reaches into the back pocket of her jeans to retrieve her phone. Her stomach plummets with an unpleasant, heavy weight when she sees her lock screen, a photo of her and Brooke at dinner in whatever up-and-coming fancy restaurant where they had gone with a bunch of Brooke’s posh friends, Brooke slightly flushed and smiling happily and Yvie’s chin resting on her shoulder, tongue sticking out.

She ignores the feeling and unlocks the phone quickly before Scarlet catches a glimpse of the photo, opening the keypad on the phone app and only then handing the device to Scarlet. As Scarlet types out her number and then clicks to save the contact, Yvie continues smoking and observing her.

“I’m gonna just call myself real fast so I get your number,” Scarlet informs when she’s done. “I left my purse with Sasha, or at least I hope I did, and my phone is in there.”

She lets it ring once, twice, and then hangs up and locks the phone, giving it back to Yvie who shoves it deep in her jean pocket like it has the power to incriminate her or something. Puffing on her cigarette one last time, she stumps it out on the wall and lets the butt fall into the big metallic bucket they use as their ashtray. Then she wrenches the door open and gestures for Scarlet to go in. Scarlet does, diving under Yvie’s outstretched arm, and Yvie kicks the brick aside before following.

Scarlet’s already shedding the jacket when Yvie stops to drop her smokes on the desk, and she hangs it carefully before turning back to Yvie, a smile still lighting up her features.

“It’s so incredibly good to see you, Yves,” she says, almost shy. “It really is.”

“I know,” Yvie grins. “It really, really is, Scar.”

“Please let’s actually catch up sometime and not just say we will and never do it?”

“Of course,” Yvie promises seriously. “Next week, yeah? Like you said.”

“Okay, it’s a date,” Scarlet beams and Yvie should probably correct her now, but it’s just a figure of speech, and making a fuss about it would just be stupid and now she’s already nodded and the train’s passed and she’ll try again when she figures out how to turn her thoughts into actual spoken words that leave her mouth.

“Ugh, I better get going, let you go back to work,” Scarlet says before Yvie remembers how to produce intelligent sounds. “My friends are probably wondering where I disappeared. I’ll text you, yeah?”

“Please do, I’ll be waiting,” Yvie says solemnly.

Scarlet giggles and crosses the distance between them, unceremoniously tossing herself into Yvie’s arms once again and hugging her tightly. Yvie flattens her palms against Scarlet’s back, trying to respectfully keep them high enough while still not touching the skin revealed by the low cut of the dress, and lays her chin on the crown of Scarlet’s head.

“I’m really glad to see you, Scar,” she mutters.

“Me too, babes,” Scarlet purrs and breaks the embrace. “See you very soon.”

She walks to the exit backwards and waves at Yvie before vanishing into the club. Yvie’s left to look at the way the door stays swaying on its hinges long after she’s gone, slowing down methodically. She feels simultaneously a little nauseous and ecstatic, slipping between the two fast enough to make her confused and whiplashed, and it drives her agitated, gets her skin crawling.

She’s only drawn out of her thoughts when the door flips open again and Aja walks in, shooting Yvie a single look and wordlessly going to grab a package of straws from one of the shelves. Straws securely under her arm, she rotates around to face Yvie and clears her throat.

“Ma, who’s the chick?” she asks with the exact same amount of tact and finesse as she possesses doing absolutely anything. “She was _hot_.”

“That,” Yvie sighs, “was my gay awakening.”


	3. It’s Our Curse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m back with another chapter, and this one is a little longer and juicier to make up for the time it took. I’m floored by the continuous support and love this fic has been getting, all the lovely feedback and interest have really warmed my heart. Come talk to me about this on @scarletenvynyc on Tumblr, your engagement really keeps me motivated.
> 
> A massive thank you to Jazz (@artificial-jazz), who tirelessly corrects my silly mistakes and highlights all the most important things in her feedback. I love you angel. Also a shoutout to Phryne (@phrynewrites), she makes all of this so much more fun and her brainstorming help is invaluable to me. Go check all the fabulous drabbles she’s been putting out for Christmas, and give her some love. I adore you baby!
> 
> In previous chapter: Yvie’s in New York, living her life, when she has an unexpected run-in with someone from the past.  
This chapter: There’s pasta for lunch, some revelations on both parts, and the rating goes up to explicit.

Yvie takes another forceful drag of the cigarette in her hand — her second one in the past five minutes — and looks down at the pavement. Nervously hooking her fingers under the collar of her black leather jacket to scratch the side of her neck, she shuffles her feet on the ground, as if attempting to crush tiny pebbles under her boot. Her lungs burn with the smoke she’s holding in, and she blows it out, readjusting the collar by tugging on it and lifting her gaze to survey the street, paying close attention to the faces of strangers passing her.

She’s chain-smoking again, something she hasn’t done in a good while, but she can’t really bring herself to care, because it’s pretty much the only thing somewhat capable of distracting her from her jitters and keeping her from crawling out of her own skin.

There’s a chilly breeze of wind that ruffles Yvie’s hair, throwing some of it in her face. She shivers and curses silently under her breath, snatching the cigarette from between her lips and running her other hand through her mane to push it back. Inhaling another lungful of smoke, she folds the lapels of her jacket over one another in hope that it’ll keep her a little warmer and safer from the wind.

Last Friday, after they closed the doors of the club and turned all the lights on, Yvie had checked her phone, only to find an iMessage from the contact named _Scarlet Starlet _promptly followed by a bunch of emojis, including (but not limited to) a rose, a kiss mark, and sparkles. At first, Yvie had forgotten to even check the message itself in favour of staring at the name, thinking about the fact that she never used emojis in her contacts — except for Brooke, whose name was accompanied by a simple red heart so Yvie could quickly recognise when she was texting or calling — because she found them distracting and annoying. She then proceeded to do absolutely nothing to edit Scarlet’s handiwork.

Only once the screen had gone black, Yvie had snapped out of her trance and unlocked the phone to actually read the message. It hadn’t been anything extraordinary, just Scarlet repeating how crazy this was and how excited she was to see Yvie soonest, but something about it made Yvie’s cheeks and palms burn nonetheless. She had tried her best to wipe the unreasonably wide and idiotic grin off her face, quickly typing out a response and shoving the device back into her jean pocket and returning to her task of cashing out.

She had assumed Scarlet was already asleep and that the reply wouldn’t come until the next day, if even then, but she was proven wrong when she had checked her phone again after they had locked up. There had been at least five texts from Scarlet, depicting in great detail some silly story that happened to her, Pearl, and their friend Rifi at McDonald’s when they left the club. Yvie had smiled like a fool around the filter of her cigarette reading the messages as she walked to the subway station — despite knowing that Brooke wouldn’t approve of her transport of choice. The night had been cool, bordering on cold, but for some ungodly reason Yvie’s skin felt flushed and overheated.

When she had awoken on Saturday, Brooke was already gone, had been long enough for her side of the bed to feel cool and for the faint trace of her perfume to be barely noticeable. Yvie had sprawled out on their queen size bed like an overgrown and weirdly bendy cat in the sun and opened the thread with Scarlet, perhaps to reread it or perhaps to make sure it was real to begin with and she hadn’t just dreamed it.

She had just reached the part of the story where an angry pigeon had stolen Rifi’s McNuggets when the telltale three dots indicating that Scarlet was typing appeared and started bouncing at the bottom of the chat. Yvie had freaked out and, like any sensible and sane adult, reacted by locking her phone and dropping it somewhere in the middle of the white, wrinkled sheets. Rapidly drawing her clenched fist to her chest as if she’d been burnt, she had listened to the thumping of her heart and ignored the vibration of her phone, absurdly worried that opening the text would somehow let Scarlet know how desperately impatient she was, even though she didn’t have her read receipts on.

The wind unceremoniously blows Yvie’s hair right back in her face, and she huffs in annoyance, tucking it behind her ear this time. Dragging on her cigarette once more, she deems it’s done and flicks the stub away, crossing her arms on her chest and shoving her hands between them and her sides to hide from the chilly wind.

It’s the Tuesday after Scarlet had materialised at the club, and Yvie’s in Williamsburg, quivering more out of the nervous energy that’s filling her cells than the cold and the waiting. Scarlet had been serious about catching up as soon as possible, and Yvie had no willpower nor any desire to decline the first possible day that suited them both, which happened to be today as Scarlet had quickly discovered.

Shifting her hips and rubbing her denim-clad knees together lightly, Yvie lifts her hand to straighten the ball of her septum ring. Then, almost as an afterthought, she reaches into her jacket pocket to fish out her phone and check the time. It’s four totwo, and even though Scarlet _could_ technically arrive any second now, Yvie doubts she’ll be early — her inexactness usually only extended to making her late, rarely the other way around, and Yvie suspects that hasn’t changed much in the years they haven’t seen each other. So, she grabs yet another cigarette and lights it.

She’s almost through with it when she finally spots Scarlet approaching, waving at Yvie excitedly as she rushes down the street. Her hair is let loose and in what Yvie knows from years ago is its natural curly state, the soft waves framing her face messily. She wears a pair of blue jeans and a brown leather jacket whose shade is matched by her knee boots perfectly. She’s smiling so brightly it’s nearly blinding, and Yvie feels herself grin back, lets the cigarette fall from between her fingers onto the ground, and grinds it under her Docs before lifting her hand in greeting.

Scarlet picks up her pace so that she all but jogs to close the remaining distance between them, and as she launches herself into Yvie’s arms with an enthusiastic squeal, all Yvie can do is catch her and envelop her in a hug. Scarlet buries her face in the front of Yvie’s pink pullover, most likely to muffle the shriek she produces as she squeezes her middle, and then hooks her chin on her shoulder with enough vigour that Yvie stumbles backwards a pace or two before regaining her balance.

“Hi, hi, hi, baby!” Scarlet breathes into Yvie’s ear, the nearness of her sending the words down Yvie’s spine in a form of a shudder.

“Howdyoo,” Yvie sighs, feeling almost relieved to hold Scarlet like this, to be assured, once again, that it really is her and they’ve really met. “Fuck, it’s so good to see you.”

“_I know_,” Scarlet says and takes a step back, disentangling herself from Yvie and grabbing her biceps instead. “I couldn’t believe this all weekend, like I just kept thinking that I must’ve dreamed the whole thing or something.”

“Yeah,” Yvie nods. “Fuck, me too.”

Scarlet smiles widely and gently slides her palm down Yvie’s arm, taking Yvie’s hand in both of hers once she reaches it. “You weren’t waiting here long, were you? I’m sorry I’m a little late.”

“Just long enough to get my fix of nicotine,” Yvie brushes her off. “Don’t worry, you’re perfect. How are you?”

“I am good. Now, how do you feel about pasta? There’s this place not too far away that serves lunch till pretty late, and they make, like, my favourite pastas, and I thought that maybe I could take you there? Their carbonara is to _die_ for.”

“I feel good about pasta,” Yvie says immediately, without even properly processing what she’s agreeing to, Scarlet’s eagerness more than enough to convince her.

“Perfect,” Scarlet states decisively and intertwines the fingers of her right hand with Yvie’s left. “You’ll love it. Let’s go.”

She starts in the direction she came from, pulling Yvie with her. All Yvie can do is trail after her in a haze, the skin of her palm prickling from the unexpected contact, her slightly bigger hand enclosing Scarlet’s smaller one just right, her fingers fitting between Scarlet’s without any trouble.

The street isn’t crowded enough to justify their handholding in order to not get separated, but it’s crowded enough for their position to cause disdain in the pedestrians passing and rounding them as they take up too much space. However, Scarlet keeps gripping like she’s afraid to let go, scared of Yvie slipping from her reach, her grasp desperate enough for her knuckles to surely turn white. Yvie doesn’t withdraw, either, just presses her fingers tighter in the spaces between Scarlet’s and hooks her thumb over Scarlet’s assuringly.

The walk really isn’t long at all, just a block and a half and suddenly Scarlet is pulling open the glass door at the corner of a building and ushering Yvie in, her hand slipping out of Yvie’s and coming to rest on Yvie’s shoulder instead. Yvie glances around curiously as she steps farther into the restaurant. It’s a simple space full of daylight flowing in through the huge windows on the right wall, roomy in an airy way and furnished in mostly white with a pop of green from the plants positioned around. The tables vary in size, some of them clearly meant for bigger groups while others only seat two. It’s not unbearably busy but not completely empty, either, resulting in an atmosphere that is private without being too intimate or ambient, perfect for a pair of friends to catch up over casual lunch.

“It’ll be just the two of us,” Scarlet tells the waitress who rushes to greet them by the door while Yvie gapes around.

“Great,” the woman says warmly. “Follow me, dears.”

She gestures at the seating area as if pointing out the direction she’s going to lead them in and then immediately heads there. Scarlet nods with a bright, toothy smile and links her arm with Yvie’s, the leather of their jackets squeaking as the motion causes them to rub together. She nudges Yvie forth a little and flattens her spare palm against Yvie’s bicep as Yvie finally snaps out of it and follows the waitress.

They’re guided to one of the tables, and the waitress puts two menus down while Yvie shrugs her backpack off and Scarlet wiggles out of her jacket, grabbing it by the collar and lightly shaking it out. She makes a subtle grabby hand in Yvie’s direction, indicating that she wants Yvie to take off her own jacket and give it to her, too. Hooking the strap of her backpack over the backrest of her chair, Yvie sheds the garment and complies.

“Could we please get a bottle of Pellegrino?” Scarlet shoots over her shoulder as she hangs the jackets on the clothing rack nearby.

“Coming right up, dear,” the waitress smiles and disappears with that.

Yvie flops into her seat and eyes the menu in front of her blankly, not really registering a single thing on it and absently tugging on the ball of her septum ring. Above her, Scarlet clears her throat and, humming something under her breath, pulls out a chair for herself. Yvie immediately abandons the menu and shifts her attention.

“Oh,” Scarlet says with a wide-eyed expression, like she’s just remembered something, freezing in the middle of sitting down. “Is sparkling water okay? I fully ordered without even asking! Silly me.”

Yvie taps the back of her finger against the ring, then lays her elbow on the tabletop and rests her cheek against her knuckles and grins playfully. “That’s perfectly fine.”

“_Phew_,” Scarlet lets out exaggeratedly and drops onto the chair, and Yvie can’t help but laugh at her comical tone and expression. Scarlet sticks her tongue out briefly and pushes her hair back over her shoulders before scooting closer to the table and cupping her mouth like she’s going to let Yvie in on a secret. “I’m gonna order wine with the pasta anyway. The water’s just for the show.”

“Course it is,” Yvie deadpans conspiratorially.

Scarlet breaks out into delighted giggles, knocking her toes against Yvie’s boot gently, and Yvie scrunches up her face in response, her pursed lip brushing against the septum ring. As Scarlet’s laughter subsides, she repositions herself more comfortably and runs her fingers through her hair to tuck some of it behind her ear.

“I love your septum,” she says suddenly.

“Oh,” Yvie breathes out, her hand instinctively flying up to her nose. “Right, you didn’t see me with it before, duh.”

Scarlet tilts her head and crosses her fingers on top of her menu. “Nah-uh, you didn’t have it when I was still home. When’d you get it?”

“Uhh, got it for my 19th birthday, as some kind of fucking painful gift to myself.”

“Well, it suits you. It looks good,” Scarlet smiles solemnly. Then, before Yvie can reply, she abruptly pushes herself off the side of the table and slumps against the backrest of her seat. “Would you look at us, huh? All grown up and pierced and reunited,” she muses.

Yvie blinks at Scarlet and surveys her face, the furrow of her brow deepening as she comes up empty-handed. “I don’t— Where do you have piercings?”

Scarlet pinches her bottom lip between her teeth coyly and, very deliberately and very slowly, lets her gaze dart down. Yvie follows her line of sight, her confused frown smoothening out as her eyes widen and her mouth grows dry. She parts her lips in a nearly soundless gasp, her mind racing a mile a minute and her tongue reflexively curling and uncurling.

Before she can even muster enough coherency to string together a simple sentence, Scarlet flicks her eyes up, her demure expression cracking as she bursts into full, hearty laughter.

“Oh my God!” she chokes out between her fits. “You’re a dirty, dirty lady, Yvie Bridges! I don’t have any piercings under my clothes. Gosh, you should’ve seen your face.” She leans back in the chair and kicks her legs in the air under the table, then nudges Yvie’s shin with the side of her foot.

“Oh my fucking—” Yvie groans and covers her eyes with her palm, feeling the heat creep up her chest and neck and rise to her cheeks. “You minx, I legit thought— Oh, _fuck you_, Scarlet,” she whines and fights off the reflex to palm her own breast, suddenly very aware of the way her pierced nipple catches on the lace of her bralette.

Scarlet releases another ringing gale of giggles. Then she lets out a huge exhale, as if trying to calm down, and swipes her index fingers under her eyes. “Come on, you gotta admit that was funny,” she says, her voice still thick with the remnants of laughter.

“Absolutely fucking not,” Yvie states, but her tone betrays her amusement nonetheless. “Get out.”

Scarlet giggles again and sits up straighter, readjusting the slightly loose, grey shirt she’s wearing by the shoulders. Then, she subtly fits her foot between Yvie’s under the table. Yvie’s heart jumps to her throat and she swallows against it but doesn’t move away, and Scarlet sneaks her other foot behind Yvie’s ankle.

They stare at each other for a little while, the ghost of laughing still crinkling in the corners of Scarlet’s eyes and Yvie’s skin flushed. However, before either of them manages to say anything, the waitress returns with their water and gets busy filling their glasses. Yvie shifts her hips and looks down at her menu, feeling a little like she was caught doing something she shouldn’t have been doing. Yet, she lets her feet stay interlaced with Scarlet’s.

“Ready to order, darlings?” the waitress asks, setting the bottle between them on the table.

“Oh shit,” Scarlet says, charming as ever. “I didn’t even let you look at the menu, Yves. I mean, I know what I’m getting, but this one here… Oh, God, we haven’t seen each other in years — _years!_ — and I just completely kept all her attention on myself. Do you mind if we have just a little longer?”

Something warm spreads through Yvie’s insides at the familiar nickname, at the ease with which Scarlet uses it again, like she never stopped at all, like no time has passed whatsoever. It’s not like nobody uses it for Yvie anymore — Brooke maybe doesn’t, but Aja has picked it up God knows where, and so have a couple of other friends — but the way it sounds when spoken in Scarlet’s lilt still remains unparalleled, unchallenged almost.

“I’ll actually just have whatever you’re having,” Yvie injects, fully aware that her mind is way too occupied with far more important topics for her to be able to concentrate on trivial things.

“You sure?” Scarlet confirms and, once Yvie gives her a nod, turns back to the waitress. “Okay, well, in that case we’re getting two tagliatelle carbonaras and two glasses of Teroldego.”

“Perfect, thank you, darling,” the waitress says, scribbling their order down into her little notepad and then collects their menus before departing.

As they’re left alone again, Yvie leans her chin against her palm and shimmies the foot that’s between Scarlet’s a little. “I thought you’re supposed to pair carbonara with a white,” she hums, hoping that the teasing twinkle in her eye is evident enough.

Scarlet takes a sip of water and then looks at Yvie over the glass, tapping her index finger against the rim rhythmically. “I like it better with red wine, though,” she drawls, pursing her lips.

Yvie moves her hand to cover the grin her face splits into. It’s so very distinctly and unmistakably Scarlet, to not give a damn about what the guidelines state and instead choose exactly the things she likes, exactly how she likes them. It seems comforting and familiar and right — that’s how Scarlet has always been, that’s how she already was when they were younger, and that’s one of the things about her that never failed to make Yvie feel safe to be unapologetically herself around her.

The waitress returns with the drinks, and Yvie slides her elbow off of the table to give her space to set them down. She also puts a plate of fresh, sliced white bread between them and promises that their portions will be ready very soon.

“How did the rest of your weekend go?” Scarlet asks, placing her index and middle fingers on either side of the stem of her wine glass and sliding them along it while the pad of her thumb traces the round foot.

They hadn’t texted much after they had agreed to meet up on Saturday morning — Yvie had been swamped at work and Scarlet had been busy with friends all weekend — even though Yvie’s fingers had practically twitched with the desire to open the chat and just message Scarlet about anything and everything, just to be talking to her. She had been checking her phone so excessively that even Aja had noticed, which in itself had been miraculous, because Aja rarely acknowledged things outside of her own little bubble.

Luckily, Aja had just been in the middle of some deeply emotional rant, so the situation hadn’t resulted in more than her throwing her shoe in Yvie’s general direction, missing by a mile, and snappily asking _Ma, what’s more important than this, huh, Yvangeline? Is Broke Lynn sending you nudes or something? No? Then put your damn phone away. _Yvie had sighed and reminded Aja that her girlfriend’s name is Brooke, thankful that Aja was too distracted to sense there’s something to interrogate her about.

It had been for the better, because Yvie hadn’t been sure she would be able to explain something she herself couldn’t make any sense of, still isn’t.

“It was alright,” Yvie shrugs. “Spent it mostly at the club, nothing glamorous. How was yours? Did Rifi go through more traumatic experiences with pigeons?”

Scarlet throws her head back and laughs uproariously. “Oh no, she was able to avoid pigeons for the rest of the weekend. God you should’ve seen her shaking her fist and screaming _‘That’s your cousin in a nugget, you cursed cannibalistic bird!’ _at the pigeon. The weekend was nice, though. Sasha and I went to see _Cabaret _on Broadway.”

“Uh-huh?” Yvie lets out and reaches for a slice of bread. “Was it good?”

“Fantastic. No, you’re supposed to eat that with olive oil, ugh, hold on, give me that,” Scarlet orders and slaps the back of Yvie’s hand lightly, snatching the bread from her.

Yvie quirks her eyebrow at Scarlet and watches as the other gathers a glass bottle full of olive oil from a little stack of condiments on their table. Instead of a lid, there’s a spout, similar to the ones they use in the club, and Scarlet swiftly tilts the container to pour some oil onto the slice.

“Like so,” she singsongs. “C’mon, try it.”

She extends the bread Yvie’s way, but in lieu of giving it over like a normal person, she brings it up to Yvie’s lips. Surprised by the action, Yvie opens her mouth, tongue slipping out slightly, and allows Scarlet to hand feed her half of the slice.

It’s delicious, fresh and practically melting on Yvie’s tongue, but she can’t concentrate on the taste when Scarlet’s fingertips brush against her lips, cropped nails grazing the skin as she waits for Yvie to take a bite and then draws her hand back. Lifting her chin a little, Scarlet finishes the slice in one mouthful herself, and Yvie almost chokes when she shamelessly sucks her fingers clean of excess olive oil.

“Good, huh?” Scarlet inquires with a satisfied tilt to her lips.

Yvie forces out a gruff cough and takes a sip of her water, the bubbles doing close to nothing to soothe her throat and instead tickling her nose. She sniffles and croaks out something that only barely resembles a yes.

“Mm, I love their bread so much,” Scarlet nods agreeably and then leans in and lowers her voice. “And it really shows in my thighs.”

She drops her hand into her lap under the table, to, undoubtedly, prove her words by copping a feel of her own thigh, but Yvie is still too shaken and weak to check if her suspicion is correct. Instead, she reaches for her water again, and then, changing her mind, grabs the glass with wine and drinks from it.

The scene is discharged by the waitress appearing again, this time carrying two gigantic bowls of pasta. She places one in front of Scarlet first, then turns to Yvie.

“Oh, this smells amazing,” Scarlet gushes. “Isn’t this lovely, Yvie? This is the best pasta in all of Brooklyn, I’m telling you!”

“Buon Appetito, dears,” the waitress chuckles, sending Scarlet an endeared look.

While Scarlet chirps out her thank yous, Yvie smiles at the waitress and reaches for her utensils, glancing down at her portion. It does smell and look absolutely incredible, the creamy sauce covered with a thin layer of quickly melting grated parmesan and a fresh leaf of basil. Yvie feels her mouth water, and it isn’t until then that she realises how hungry she actually is, all her nerves from earlier having drained her energy.

In the meantime, Scarlet grabs a napkin from the holder on the table and shakes it out. “Whenever I don’t do this, I drop something on myself and make such a mess,” she explains with a serious little face, and spreads the napkin on her lap. It shouldn’t be charming, but somehow, it is, and Yvie sucks her bottom lip into her mouth to conceal the width of her smile.

Scarlet catches it anyway and mirrors the expression. Then she raises her wine glass and angles it toward Yvie a little.

“To our reunion?” she proposes.

Yvie lifts her own glass and clings it against Scarlet’s. “Cheers.”

“Cheers,” Scarlet echoes and takes a sip. Then she gathers her fork and starts twirling pasta on it. “Speaking of the weekend,” she begins casually. “Pearl really liked playing at your club.”

Yvie swallows her first mouthful and chases it down with a gulp of wine. “Aw, did she really?” she coos. “Or did you just make her say that because it’s _my_ club?”

Scarlet scoffs amusedly and waves Yvie off. “Did not! I mean I obviously told her about you, but she complimented the club unprompted. Said it was cool to play there and that everyone was really professional and chill.”

“Clearly she didn’t interact with Honey. Or Aja after 11pm. Neither has chill,” Yvie jokes in a flat voice. “I’m glad she liked it, though, we liked having her there. I’ve been a huge fan of her remixes for a while now. And I guess her being there gave me you back, so…” She throws a piece of bacon in her mouth and chews thoughtfully, then points her fork at Scarlet. “_Speaking of_, I believe I was promised a story back at the club.”

“Oh, right,” Scarlet breathes out with an air of uncertainty and sets her utensils down, scratching her head. Noticing her hesitancy, Yvie gently clicks her toes against Scarlet’s heel under the table. Scarlet cocks her head to the side and sends Yvie a grateful half smile. “I said it’s a long story, didn’t I? And then I got home and started thinking about it and realised that it’s really quite simple and straightforward, or, I mean…” she pauses and giggles at something, and Yvie fixes her a quizzical look, but she just shakes her head. “Anyway, it’s probably a lot less exciting than you expect.”

“Scarlet, it could be the most boring and shortest story ever and I’d still be thrilled to hear it,” Yvie says. “I wanna know what my high school friend was up to. You know, I called your house phone when you didn’t show up back home, but your mom just said you’re not available.”

“Really?” Scarlet gasps, blinking. “Mom never told me you tried to reach me. I wasn’t allowed any contact with any of my high school friends. Parents even got me a new phone and number and got the carrier to block everyone’s numbers, it was ridiculous. As if it was my friends’ fault stuff got bad, you know? I was a whole-ass mess on my own.”

“To be honest, we were all messes at sixteen,” Yvie murmurs, absently collecting pasta on her fork. “I, for instance, puked in a potential hookup’s car once. And there was that one time when Kahanna woke up in the next town over without any recollection of how she had ended up there and had to call her mom to come and get her. Oof, Coco had been fucking livid. That junior year was _wild_.”

“For some of us more than others. I mean, I understand they meant well and were acting out of worry, but their methods were just a little bit overreactive.” Scarlet rolls her eyes affectionately. “Also, I’m definitely asking about the car puking story,” she adds with a shit-eating smirk, and Yvie groans regretfully.

“You’re the worst.”

“Is that what she said when instead of fucking her you fucked up the interior of her car?”

“_Fuck off_,” Yvie grumbles and throws a toothpick at Scarlet, eliciting a giggle.

“Anyway, I was an angry bundle of teenage angst, being separated from all my friends and being put into a Catholic all-girls boarding school in the middle of nowhere in Connecticut,” Scarlet continues, laying her fork down and circling the rim of her wine glass with the tip of her finger. “So I did everything I could to cause as much commotion and headache to my parents and the nuns as possible during that junior year. Practically, I just got in various trouble every chance I got. And because I was pretty efficient, after one such incident, the headmistress requested a meeting with my parents and they had to drive all the way up to Connecticut. After that mom and dad decided it would be better for me if I didn’t return home for the summer and stayed in the city with my lesbian aunts. Which, in retrospect, did me good, so I’m actually really happy with their actions.”

“You have lesbian aunts in the city?” Yvie asks stupidly.

“Uh-huh,” Scarlet says past the drink of wine she’s taking. “Or, I mean, I have one lesbian aunt, she’s mom’s sister. The other aunt is her wife. Or girlfriend, you know that was before New York legalised same-sex marriages. But they were practically wives back then already. They’re actually getting married soon, I’m so excited, I can’t wait. I _love _weddings so much.”

“Oh,” Yvie releases. “That’s why you never came back.”

“Yup,” Scarlet confirms easily. “I stayed in Coney Island with my lesbian aunts instead. Ooh, on that note, is there someone in your life? A wife or a girlfriend I should perhaps know about? Maybe a kid?”

Her tone is light, lilting, but Yvie’s stomach turns nastily regardless. There’s a sudden acidic taste in the back of her mouth and throat, and she casts her gaze down at her half-finished portion, her appetite replaced by nausea. Wondering if she just ate too much too quick, she takes a sip of water, but the dwelling in her tummy doesn’t disappear.

“I, um,” she grits out and then stops to clear her throat, her eyes still glued to her plate. “I have, yeah, I have a girlfriend.”

Scarlet’s leg jerks rapidly against Yvie’s shin, but when Yvie turns her gaze up, she finds the other woman grinning at her brightly, eyes sparkling the lightest shade of blue.

“Aww, I can’t wait to meet her! I just know I’m gonna love her.”

There’s a new twist in the pit of Yvie’s stomach, winding and knotting. She tries to take a deep breath in order to calm it, but only manages to fill her lungs halfway before her chest feels too restricted to expand anymore, and she lets the air out in a rushed exhale. A part of her wants to just nod, postpone the inevitable by simply not elaborating, but Scarlet’s face is so earnest, so sincere, and Yvie doesn’t think she could lie to her even if her life depended on it.

“It’s actually, uh. You actually know her already,” she stutters. “It’s, um, it’s Brooke. I’m with Brooke.”

Scarlet drops the fork she was about to bring up and, mouth agape, slams her palm on the tabletop.

“Brooke Hytes?” she exclaims. “Brooke from back home— Brooke Hytes a lesbian?”

“Uhh, yeah?” Yvie more questions than answers.

“I fucking knew it!” Scarlet slaps the table again and then flops against the backrest, folding her arms on her chest triumphantly. “I _knew _it, I always thought she was a little bit too curious about— Oh my God, I _cannot believe_ more than one person in that friend group turned out to be a lesbian.”

Whatever reaction Yvie had been expecting from Scarlet, this isn’t one she had been particularly — or at all, to be precise — prepared for. She doesn’t really know whether she had been anticipating for Scarlet to feel betrayed, or disappointed, or perhaps disapproving, doesn’t know if her awaiting of an inherently negative reaction had been just wishful thinking on her part, something she had been secretly hoping for instead of basing her guesses on anything substantial. Confused, she clings to the least ungraspable of the things Scarlet just said.

“Who else is a lesbian?” she frowns.

Scarlet breaks into a blinding, angelic smile, and Yvie’s gut sinks wickedly in response. As Scarlet calmly points at herself like it’s the most obvious thing ever, all Yvie can think of is how completely, utterly, entirely screwed she is.

“Huh,” she says after a beat.

Scarlet lets out a throaty laugh and kicks Yvie under the table. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“I had no idea you’re gay,” Yvie confesses honestly, her mind efficiently void of any coherent thoughts.

“We literally met in a gay club, Yvie,” Scarlet points out.

“Huh,” Yvie repeats. “We did, didn’t we? That should’ve probably tipped me off a little.”

“It really should have,” Scarlet smirks and readjusts her position, disentangling their legs and sitting up straighter. She leans forward slightly, planting her elbows either side of her plate, and grabs her wine, dangling the glass between her fingers. “Soooo,” she drags out, “You and Brooke, huh?”

Yvie goes back to poking her pasta with the fork, the turning of her stomach growing lighter but still persisting. “Um, yea. Me and Brooke.”

“How’d that happen?”

Yvie flicks her eyes up at Scarlet’s face. There’s no judgement in her tone, no demand in her expression, just ardent curiosity, but for some reason Yvie still feels squirmy, feels like she should make sure Scarlet knows she didn’t just replace her with Brooke before Scarlet’s train had even arrived in Connecticut.

“We, uh. Got closer in our senior year, and it kinda just… happened? Like one moment we’re these weird friendly acquaintances, and the next we’re together. And then she got accepted into the Juilliard, and I had applied to school in New York, too, and our thing felt, kinda, steady enough to move to the city and continue it instead of breaking it off, y’know?”

Yvie isn’t sure if she said too much, if it came across as defensive or excusing, but Scarlet just nods seriously. Then she suddenly perks up and points at Yvie with her glass. “Hold on, where _exactly _in Manhattan do you live?”

“Upper East Side,” Yvie grimaces.

“Oh my God, you fucking—”

Yvie scrunches up her face playfully. “I know.”

“I never thought I’d live to see Yvie Bridges voluntarily living in Upper East Side. The world has truly gone mad,” Scarlet laughs.’

“_I know_, right?” Yvie says. “I never imagined this is where I’d end up.”

She thinks that her statement should sound amazed, wondering almost, but somehow the words are copper on her tongue.

Scarlet hums in a pondering fashion and twirls her wine in the glass aimlessly before finishing the drink. Lowering the glass on the table, she glances at her own nearly empty plate, then at the way Yvie keeps moving the leftovers of her portion around, and sighs in contentment.

“I am _full_,” she proclaims. “Ugh, I always forget how damn large their portions are.”

Yvie makes an agreeing noise and empties the water bottle into their respective glasses. “It was super good, though.”

“Right?” Scarlet says excitedly. Then she bites down on her bottom lip and furrows her brow. “Listen, I don’t know if you want to, but… There’s a great bar a couple blocks away, and I thought that maybe we could go grab a drink and hang out a little longer? If you’d like, obviously. Unless you’re busy or something. I just figured…”

“I would love to, Scar,” Yvie interjects, relief washing over her at the thought of not having to let her go just yet, of spending a little while longer in her company. “Yes, let’s go get drinks, please.”

_Okay_, Scarlet mouths, a little smile tugging at her lips.

They pay, and Scarlet sticks another piece of bread into her mouth while Yvie consumes the remnants of the wine, and then they get out of the restaurant. This time, as they make their way down the street, Scarlet doesn’t offer her hand to be taken, doesn’t reach for Yvie’s, either, and it shouldn’t make a difference, but somehow, it still does.

The bar where Scarlet guides them is elegant without being too extravagant or lavish. The lighting is dim, the walls are red brick, and the ceiling is low, supported by a number of stone columns situated evenly throughout the room. The colour scheme is rather subdued, mostly browns with various accents of beiges and burgundies. There’s also a counter, one of those fancy ones with a polished countertop made of dark wood and bottles on display on a huge shelf behind it, nothing like the one back in Yvie’s club.

They pick a small high table next to one of the columns, and Yvie immediately perches herself on one of the two tall stools, spreading her legs and pressing her palms in the space between them. Scarlet stops beside her and leans her elbow on the tabletop and her cheek on her hand, blinking up at Yvie with an innocent expression that deliberately feels like anything but.

“What are you drinking?” she purrs, and Yvie has to clench her thighs either side of her wrists. “I’m buying, babes.”

“Think ‘m gonna get a beer,” Yvie rasps out, her voice tinted with just slight roughness. “Um, make it Heineken.”

“Coming right up, ma’am,” Scarlet recites, feigning an overly responsible tone.

“Also, if you order your heretic beer on ice, make sure to tell the bartender I do _not_ condone insanity and blasphemy,” Yvie tells her.

“Oh, shut up,” Scarlet laughs. “I’m getting a whiskey, don’t worry.”

“On ice?” Yvie teases.

“You know it,” Scarlet states matter-of-factly and shoves Yvie playfully before strutting away.

Yvie watches her go, even though the column blocks her from seeing the rest of the space pretty efficiently, and contemplates everything she’s heard and learned about Scarlet today. It all clicks, in a way, and the more she considers it, the spark in Scarlet’s eyes, her effortlessly confident demeanour, the clearer it becomes. Looking back on it, the role Scarlet had assumed in high school never seemed to fit her quite right, had always felt just a tiny bit off, and Yvie had never been able to pinpoint why. But now it’s as if she’s finally grown into herself fully and seamlessly.

Yvie had never imagined Scarlet turning out gay, not seriously, anyway, but now that she knows, it makes more sense than most things in life.

As Yvie chews on her lip and picks one of her cuticles, Scarlet appears behind her. Pressing her chest against Yvie’s back, she reaches past her to put a bottle of beer on the table, and Yvie reflexively turns her head, resulting in Scarlet’s face mere inches away from her own, Scarlet’s breath warm on her jawline.

Before Yvie can react further than her instantly increased pulse, Scarlet already rounds the table and climbs on the stool opposite her. She places her forearms on the surface, holding a glass of golden brown liquor on rocks between her hands, and grins happily. Yvie clears her throat and rolls her shoulders back to relax her posture, then reaches for her bottle and traces the edge of the label tag with her nail.

“Thank God,” she groans in joking exaggeration, nodding at Scarlet’s beverage. “I see you still make questionable drink choices.”

“And I see you still like being a shameless input hoe,” Scarlet shoots back with the matching amount of humour in her tone.

Yvie throws her head back and releases a rough cackle. “Yup, I’ve actually only gotten worse and more unbearable through the years,” she shrugs and lifts the bottle to her lips to take a swig.

“You don’t say,” Scarlet mutters good-naturedly just as Yvie drinks.

Yvie flips her off and rolls her eyes in faux annoyance, and then takes another sip of her beer. As she rests the bottle back on the table, her thumb impulsively goes back to peeling the corner of the label off. She examines Scarlet and runs her tongue over her teeth and lips before speaking again.

“So, um, how about you? You have a girlfriend or something?”

Scarlet tilts her glass from side to side slowly, focus fixed on the movement of the liquid, and shakes her head.

“Nah-uh, no one at the moment. I had a girlfriend for a while after graduating high school, and then I’ve had, like, some shorter flings, but they never went anywhere.” She turns her eyes up at Yvie. “Nah, I’m fully a single pringle, ready to mingle and shit.”

Yvie can’t help the gale of laughter that escapes her at the combination of Scarlet’s somber expression and the absurdity of her words. “If that’s your dating profile bio, I’m not surprised you’re single, Scarlet.”

“Oh, is that why I can’t get girls to like me on Tinder?” Scarlet gasps in mock shock and bumps Yvie’s legs under the table.

Yvie swallows another series of chuckles and takes a drink instead.

“Pearl?” she asks.

“Oh, God, Jesus, no,” Scarlet yelps immediately. “Christ that’s gross, absolutely not. She’s like a sister to me. Besides, she’s got Violet now. But God, never.”

“Oh, right,” Yvie exhales, the air practically rushing out of her lungs for some reason. “You mentioned Violet.”

“Yeah. Besides, Pearl’s not my type,” Scarlet explains.

_What’s your type, then? _dances on the tip of Yvie’s tongue, nearly spills, but she holds it back and hums nonchalantly in response instead.

“How did you end up working in a women’s shelter?” she inquires.

Scarlet purses her lips, deep in thought as her fingers drum a random rhythm against the side of her glass. “I don’t even really know,” she drawls. “I mean, FIT was fun and all, and my course, I did advertisement design, and it was interesting but I didn’t really know what I want to do when I, you know, _grow up_ and all.And I had previously come to the conclusion that surrounding myself with and helping women is actually something that makes me happy and I was volunteering at the shelter. And right around the time I needed to have some sort of, like, a game plan, there was a job opening, just like some secretarial stuff, and I got it, and that’s where I’ve been ever since.”

“Ah,” Yvie lets out, ripping off a stripe of the label and twisting it between her fingers. “D’you like it?”

“I do,” Scarlet says. “I mean, it’s hard. Emotionally. And I wish we lived in a world where we don’t need women’s shelters. But I wouldn’t change it for anything. I love it.”

“Yeah,” Yvie murmurs and tears the piece of label in half distractedly. “I bet. It’s demanding, but it’s also more rewarding than it is draining.”

“Exactly,” Scarlet huffs enthusiastically, as if Yvie hit the nail on the head. “You feel that way about the club, don’t you?”

Yvie blinks at Scarlet, warmth collecting in her belly at the realisation that Scarlet understands — of course she does, Scarlet’s always understood.“Yeah,” she says softly. “Yeah, I do. It sucks so much at times, but then it’s like… I mean, it’s no women’s shelter obviously, but I get to create a safe space for the gays, and that’s kinda cool.”

The corners of Scarlet’s eyes crinkle as she smiles at Yvie gently, nodding like she knows precisely what Yvie means. It’s comforting, but also refreshing, to have her react to Yvie talking about the club like this, with recognition of its significance in lieu of belittling it. Yvie tucks the feeling it evokes in her heart, tightly and securely.

“How are your parents?” Scarlet asks, propping her elbows on the table and putting her face in her palms.

“They’re good,” Yvie says and sips from the bottle. “They actually got divorced after you left. Mom remarried, and dad has a girlfriend, I think? And his motorcycle club. How are yours?”

“Pretty great. Anna’s pregnant so mom’s all up in her feelings about becoming a grandma and shit,” Scarlet chuckles. “And Sarah just got engaged, so all the wedding planning will be upon us very soon. I told them that at least my lesbian ass isn’t bringing home a man or a baby, so they can catch a break for a moment. Mom just said it’s only fair because I spent like my whole time in high school not cutting them any slack.”

Yvie snorts loudly and rolls her eyes. “By the way, what _did _you do that got them called to your school?”

“Um,” Scarlet smacks her lips together and drinks before continuing. “I, uh, slept with another student.”

“Oh,” Yvie says.

“In an all-girls school,” Scarlet adds, punctuating the sentence by pouring the rest of the liquor down her throat.

“_Oh_,” Yvie repeats, the information sinking in slowly and then all at once. “Oh, you… Oh.”

“That’s also when I found out I, in fact, greatly enjoy eating pussy,” Scarlet chirps and sticks her tongue out.

“Oh,” Yvie says for the third time.

“Come on, Yves, don’t act all scandalised about it, we both know prudery isn’t one of your virtues,” Scarlet impels with a laugh.

“I’m not,” Yvie rushes to say. ‘_I’m imagining that tongue…’_ her brain inserts not so helpfully, but she cuts that thought off before it develops any further and shakes her head to get rid of it. “So, was she your first girlfriend, then?”

“Uhh, no, I didn’t really…” Scarlet starts and then stops, forcing out a little cough before speaking again. “I worked as a waitress in Coney Island after graduation and I met Ada there.”

Sensing her hesitancy, Yvie doesn’t press the subject, doesn’t ask more, just nods sharply and lets it go.She finishes her beer in one gulp and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand after setting the bottle down.

“Do you think we can see each other soon again?” Scarlet asks sulkily, like Yvie needs any convincing or pleading, like she isn’t already hoping for a short time apart.

“Of course,” Yvie says, maybe a little bit too excitedly. “I’m off most afternoons, anyway, so whenever you’re free. You can also swing by the club anytime, just text me.”

“Okay,” Scarlet agrees, her bottom lip still pushed out in a pout and her expression extremely determined. “Good, I’ll hold you to that.” She slides to her feet and offers her arm for Yvie to link hers with. “Shall I walk you to the station?”

“Why, that’s awfully nice, milady. I would be honoured,” Yvie deadpans jokingly, making Scarlet giggle adorably and looping arms with her. “Lead the way.”

*

Brooke is in the kitchen when Yvie gets home.

Stopping by the door, Yvie leans her shoulder against the frame, folding her arms on her chest and crossing her legs, and watches for a while. Brooke is in just an oversized t-shirt that falls slightly lower than her ass, her long, toned legs bare. Her hair is untied, tousled locks cascading down her back as she’s facing away from Yvie, fussing with boxes of takeout on the counter. She reaches for something, and the hem of her shirt hitches up, revealing the crease between her ass and thighs, and Yvie has to bite her lip, the corner of her mouth striving into a smirk.

“See something you like?” Brooke wonders nonchalantly without turning to look at Yvie.

Her teasingly light tone goes straight between Yvie’s legs, and she shuffles her hips, pressing her thighs together.

“Maybe I do,” she lets out gruffly.

“Mm?” Brooke lilts.

In lieu of responding, Yvie pushes herself off the doorframe and shrugs off her backpack that she had perched on one shoulder after undressing at the front door. Letting it thump down on the floor, she crosses the kitchen and comes up behind Brooke, placing her hands on Brooke’s hips and digging her fingers into her hipbones. Brooke shifts ever so slightly, her ass brushing against Yvie’s crotch, and Yvie grips her firmer to still her, presses her chest to Brooke’s back and runs her parted lips up the side of Brooke’s neck.

“Honey, I’m home,” she whispers lowly against the shell of Brooke’s ear.

Brooke lets go of the takeout container she was busy with and clasps her fingers over Yvie’s instead, tilting her head to the side and outstretching her neck to allow Yvie better access. Yvie immediately closes her teeth around Brooke’s earlobe, and Brooke hisses tensely in return, scrambling to move her hair over her opposite shoulder.

“Someone’s feeling feisty today,” she notes breathily.

Yvie flicks her tongue over the spot she just bit and then plants an open-mouthed kiss at the corner of Brooke’s jaw. She is, feeling feisty, that is. There’s an odd kind of tightness in all of her muscles, a weirdly strong charge materialising as static and heat on her skin. She doesn’t know what’s causing it, isn’t sure what came over her, yet she can’t help but follow the urge, press up against Brooke harder and grind on her in messy search for friction.

“You complaining, babe?” Yvie grunts before dropping her lips lower to nibble Brooke’s neck where she knows her girlfriend’s most sensitive.

Brooke releases a strained exhale, one of her hand slipping up Yvie’s wrist and clutching her forearm. “No, I’m… Fuck, there— Oh, _right_ there, baby,” she moans as Yvie sucks on the skin lightly, careful to not leave a mark.

She gives Brooke’s hips a squeeze, then slides her hands under the hem of Brooke’s shirt. Brooke isn’t wearing much beneath, just a flimsy g-string, and Yvie toys with its lacy waistband, stretches it out and lets it snap back against Brooke’s skin before venturing higher to fondle Brooke’s defined waist.

The skin of Yvie’s palms is burning up, her wrists tense, and her fingers practically twitching with the temptation and need to be sunk into a wet, warm pussy. Her grip on Brooke’s waist adamant, she grazes her teeth across the junction of Brooke’s neck and shoulder, and Brooke reacts by rotating her hips into their contact, her ass rubbing against Yvie’s front seductively. Yvie’s body responds before she’s realised it, her own hips surging forward and pinning Brooke to the counter.

“Babe,” Brooke gasps. “Our dinner’s going to go cold.”

“I don’t give a fuck,” Yvie growls into Brooke’s ear.

Perhaps it’s Yvie’s nearness, or maybe her tone, assertive, dominant, firm, Yvie’s not entirely sure, but Brooke shivers, hard enough for Yvie to feel it against her own body, the sensation sending thrilling chills up her spine. Brooke squirms and turns her head, not wasting any time looking at Yvie, and smashing their lips in an imprecise, desperate kiss.

Yvie reciprocates instantly, licking into Brooke’s mouth filthily, rushed and messy. As Brooke manages to snake her arm around Yvie’s shoulders and tangle her fist in Yvie’s hair at the back of her head, Yvie twists Brooke around by her waist, trapping her against the counter once more soon as they’re face to face. Their kiss doesn’t break during, and Brooke doesn’t hesitate to grab Yvie’s ass with her unoccupied hand and pull her even closer.

“F— Fuck, want you, baby,” she pants when Yvie pulls away for oxygen and moves to trail kisses on her jawline instead.

The words make Yvie’s core twitch with want. Hastily, she reaches past Brooke to push the takeout boxes to the side, out of their way with her forearm, and then brings her both hands to the back of Brooke’s thighs.

“Up,” she commands curtly.

Brooke obeys without a moment’s delay, letting go of Yvie and flattening her palms on the edge of the counter. As she pushes herself up on her arms, Yvie grips her legs and helps her to lift herself to sit on the cool stone surface.

As soon as Brooke’s seated, she works her legs open to accommodate Yvie between them and winds her arms around Yvie’s shoulders, fingers playing with the little hairs at the base of her skull. Hands solidly on Brooke’s toned thighs, blunt nails ramming into the milky skin, Yvie steps closer. Brooke instantaneously presses one of her calves against the small of Yvie’s back to fix her in place, and Yvie cranes her neck and captures Brooke’s puffy mouth in a heated kiss.

She’s just sucking on Brooke’s lower lip when she senses the muscle of Brooke’s calf flex against her back, as if attempting to pull her nearer, even though the side of the counter is already digging into her waistline sturdily. As Brooke realises her struggle is futile, she switches tactics and scoots forward on the stone instead, angling her hips up like she’s offering herself to Yvie, or maybe demanding more — both are equally as likely when it comes to Brooke and her whims. Yvie doesn’t relent, regardless of how much her insides are pulsing to, just smirks and puts her thumbs against the insides of Brooke’s thighs, forcefully pulling the softer, more malleable flesh there apart.

Brooke huffs frustratedly and rolls her waist, nudging her hips toward Yvie and fisting some of her hair vigorously. Her grip is hard enough to pull on Yvie’s roots pleasurably, and Yvie feels the impact in the clenching of her pussy. She releases a low growl, then laps her tongue over Brooke’s lips and slowly hooks her index and middle fingers under the crotch of Brooke’s g-string.

Brooke jerks with a shattering gasp, as if the motion sends shockwaves up her spine, stiff with anticipation and arousal. She’s wet, Yvie can smell it in the air, can sense it on the dampened fabric of Brooke’s panties against her fingertips and in the heat of Brooke’s cunt against her knuckles. She brushes the backs of her fingers along the length of Brooke’s silky, clean-shaven lips, and Brooke groans, tossing her head back and pushing her hips forth ardently.

With a raspy chuckle, Yvie rubs suggestive circles on Brooke’s pussy, way too gently, way too carefully. Dropping a chased kiss on Brooke’s open mouth, she latches onto her gorgeously exposed neck next, leaving faint, quickly fading bite marks on her descent.

“Fuck, oh, _come on_— Please,” Brooke breathes out thickly.

She wants it, her voice laced with desire, and Yvie wants it, too, can hardly contain the trembling of her greedy fingers. She pushes Brooke’s panties to the side, the material too thin and flimsy to bother with removing it, and uses her knuckles to spread Brooke’s lips. Brooke whimpers, her trimmed nails scraping Yvie’s scalp, the muscles of her thighs tensing noticeably as Yvie aimlessly strokes her slit with her thumb.

Brooke’s soaked, it is unmistakably evident by the slick sounds her pussy makes upon the contact even before Yvie has reached her entrance, where the wetness is most abundant. Yvie drops her index and middle fingers down and collects some of it, smearing it everywhere as she drags it up to Brooke’s clit. She lets her slippery digits drift past the swollen spot lightly, and Brooke works her legs more open invitingly in response.

“Such a sloppy pussy,” Yvie grunts into Brooke’s ear and slides her fingers over the clit again, pressing down a little harder this time.

“Fuck, babe,” Brooke murmurs, and it sounds like a plea without explicitly being one.

She lowers her chin and leans her forehead against Yvie’s, her eyes closed, her breath growing increasingly laboured, and before closing the distance between their lips, Yvie drives her fingers back down and slips them inside Brooke. She’s so aroused that her pussy swallows the digits with no resistance at all, and Yvie curses through her gritted teeth and finally crashes their mouths together again.

She scissors her fingers open, knowing how much Brooke loves the stretch, and fits her thumb against her clit, feels how it throbs as she increases the pressure she’s applying. Brooke tightens her leg on Yvie’s waist, and then, just a beat later, wraps her other one around Yvie too, crossing her ankles behind Yvie’s back.

Yvie is rash in her movements, a little rough around the edges, like there’s jittery energy in her veins that needs releasing, a sort of prickling under her skin that she has to get out of her system. She massages the length of Brooke’s front wall with her fingers to make her purr and melt, and then crooks the digits just enough to concentrate the contact on the particular spot that makes Brooke’s mouth fall open in soundless cries of pleasure.

As Yvie’s wrist finds its pace, fast and shallow and coaxing, and settles into it, she starts stroking Brooke’s clit in small circles. Her thumb’s tempo doesn’t really match her thrusting, but the double stimulation is driving Brooke crazy, regardless, rendering her lightheaded, the irregularity of it likely just adding on to her enjoyment.

She disentangles her arms from around Yvie and plasters her palms flat on the countertop instead, her hips striving upward as if she’s looking to lift them off the surface to chase Yvie’s touch. Yvie grabs her hipbone with her spare hand and presses her back down in one swift, firm move, her fingers never losing their goal of making Brooke unravel for her in the meantime.

Brooke doesn’t struggle against Yvie’s grip, just leans her head back slightly and arches gorgeously. Her body is getting wound up, and by the way her muscles knot and her walls flutter around Yvie’s fingers, Yvie knows her toes must have slipped into their painstakingly mastered pointed position behind her back, and it is evident she’s close to her orgasm.

Yvie’s barely nudging anymore, focusing more on pushing Brooke over the edge by teasing her spots in an uninterrupted, relentless rhythm. There’s a welcomed ache in her wrist, and a corresponding one in her core, a flicker of yearning that doesn’t quite go out no matter how hard she fucks Brooke. She reaches to connect her lips with Brooke’s neck again, and Brooke pulls her in with her legs, a constant wordless call for more and more and more.

The tremor in Brooke’s thighs is nearly continuous now, her breathing sharp and shallow, intertwined with the high-pitched whimpers escaping her. She’s close, Yvie knows it, knows that she could lure her climax out of her effortlessly. She stills her thumb flat on Brooke’s clit, presses down on it, and moves to trace the tip of her tongue along Brooke’s earlobe.

“Babe, I’m—”

Yvie twists her wrist before she can finish speaking, and Brooke finally falls apart. She collapses against Yvie’s chest, muffling her moan by hiding her face in the crook of Yvie’s neck. Yvie loops her free arm around Brooke, placing a reassuring hand between her shoulder blades, and holds Brooke as she shakes through her orgasm.

Once Brooke’s pussy stops gripping Yvie so tightly, she pulls out slowly. She rests her hand on Brooke’s flushed thigh for a moment, and then wipes her slick fingers on her jeans, beginning to pepper light kisses everywhere she can reach, which is mostly Brooke’s shoulder, exposed as her shirt slid off it earlier. Brooke hums contently and turns her head to lay a lazy peck on the side of Yvie’s neck.

Eventually, Brooke’s heavy breathing evens out, and she sits up straighter. Her legs still securely around Yvie’s waist, she slings her arms around Yvie’s neck and kisses her on the lips briefly before occupying herself with the little hairs in the back of Yvie’s head, not rushing to let go of Yvie or hop off the counter. Yvie just sighs, revelling in the feeling of having her hair played with, and returns to exploring Brooke’s neck with her mouth.

“Hey, Broo?” she mumbles after a while.

“Mm?”

“Do you keep in touch with your high school posse much?” Yvie asks, her voice nonchalant, level, and pecks Brooke’s jaw. “You know what they’re up to?”

“Hm,” Brooke ponders, her fingers massaging the base of Yvie’s skull languidly. “Not that much, no. Let’s see…I know some of my dance friends have been signed with studios. And Plastique’s dad bought her that hair salon business, remember? I believe she got Ariel involved, so I guess they’re running that. Although all that Ariel can really run is her mouth, bless her heart.”

Yvie lets out a noise of acknowledgment, and then quiets for a second before wetting her lips and speaking again, “How about Scarlet?”

“Scarlet?” Brooke repeats, the word tinged with confusion. Yvie glances up at her, and the weird wave of relief washes over her as she notices Brooke’s creased brow and a spaced out stare into the distance. Yvie opens her mouth to tell Brooke to never mind, but Brooke’s brow shoots up in realisation just as Yvie is about to speak. “Oh, you mean Envy! Oh, obviously. How could I forget Scarlet Envy?”

“James,” Yvie mutters, her jaw tightening.

“What’s that, babe?”

“Her last name is James,” Yvie corrects, straightening her spine and leaning away from Brooke slightly so that they’re facing each other. “Where did that stupid nickname even come from?”

Brooke shrugs carelessly. “I don’t even know, really.But _God_, she was _so_ much fun to party with. You could always trust her to blow some dealer to get free drugs. She was insane. Jesus, I had completely forgotten how much shit the girls and I got up to with her.”

Yvie’s stomach churns uncomfortably. She doesn’t know what exactly bothers her so much, but she does know she needs to step away right now. She grabs Brooke’s elbows and removes her arms from around herself, and then detaches herself from her girlfriend the rest of the way.

“I remember this one time, all of us were at the old fire station, you know the abandoned one that’s close to the railway station? And we…” Brooke begins, completely unbothered by Yvie moving away from her, just uncrossing her ankles to let her go and then immediately crossing them again.

Yvie stops listening to Brooke’s reminiscing and goes to pick up her backpack from where she deposited it earlier. Lifting it up by one of the straps, she shoves her hand into the side pocket and rummages through it in search of her lighter and joint that she rolled before even leaving the apartment this morning. As she locates the items, she hums in satisfaction and slots the filter between her lips, which makes Brooke cut herself off abruptly.

“Not inside, Yvie,” she reminds sternly.

Yvie rolls her eyes and reaches into another pocket for her phone. “Yes, I fucking know,” she snaps and wheels around, heading to the balcony.

Once she’s there and the clamour of the city has drowned everything else out, she unlocks her phone and checks the clock, mentally counting what time it is in London. Then she types _’so, you’ll never guess who i ran into’_ and sends it to Kahanna before lighting up.


	4. This Is What Makes Us

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello and welcome to the chapter that was not supposed to happen ! i am sorry this took so long and i really hope people are still around to enjoy this ride with me.
> 
> thank you to my loveliest [phryne](https://phrynewrites.tumblr.com) for betaing this and being overall the best writing support a girl could ask for. i love you so much.
> 
> come say hi to me on [tumblr](https://scarletenvynyc.tumblr.com/ask). Also check out [the beautiful art](https://scarletenvynyc.tumblr.com/post/190021700096) the super talented [alina](https://lepakonpaska.tumblr.com) made for the last chapter.
> 
> In previous chapter: Scarlet and Yvie actually hung out and caught up.  
This chapter: Yvie can’t seem to fall asleep.

Yvie lets out a loud, frustrated exhale and rolls onto her back. She kicks the sheets off herself so that they end up in a messy bundle at the foot of the bed.

The cool air hits her bare legs immediately, giving her goosebumps — Brooke likes to keep the bedroom temperature a little bit too low at night, always has. Yvie sighs again, thinks that she’ll be forced to pull her covers back up soon enough, and shuffles her shoulders in an attempt to find a position that feels comfortable for longer than three minutes.

She stares at the ceiling blankly. The sounds of the city below are barely audible through the thick windows of the penthouse apartment, but if she strains her ears just so, she can make out the honks and the muffled noise of the sleepless Manhattan. The room itself is silent and still — nothing like the creaky window frames and the raucous pipes in Yvie’s childhood bedroom — save for Brooke’s quiet snoring beside her. Yvie tries to focus on it, hoping that it’ll lull her to sleep, but for some reason she doesn’t find it as soothing as she has before.

With yet another huff, Yvie scratches her hip bone right where her Leo tattoo is, and then lifts her hips off the mattress and reaches to readjust her panties on her ass. After that, her position abruptly stops being comfortable. Yvie rolls her eyes, beyond tired of her inability to drift, and turns to her side to face Brooke.

Brooke’s back is to Yvie, just like she usually sleeps. They’d stopped cuddling at night pretty soon after moving in together — a fact Yvie would explain away with their wildly different sleep schedules and decreasing need for physical closeness in order to feel each other’s presence, if somebody happened to ask. Not that anyone has. Yvie’s rather sure they’ve never even acknowledged it themselves.

She’s dwelling. She knows she is, knows that is what’s keeping her awake, not just tonight, but lately. It’s been three or so weeks since Scarlet reappeared in Yvie’s life, out of the blue. It’s been approximately equally long since Yvie started dwelling. She considers rolling a joint but quickly decides against it, too lazy to get dressed and go to the balcony to smoke it. Instead she scoots a little closer to Brooke and wraps an arm around her waist. Brooke doesn’t rouse, and Yvie presses her chest to her girlfriend’s back, dropping a quick kiss on the top of her exposed shoulder and then burying her face in Brooke’s hair.

As Yvie lies there, inhaling the familiar scent of Brooke’s coconut shampoo, her eyes shut tightly, her mind begins to wander, as if of its own accord, shuffling through the carefully stored images like a deck of cards. Rapidly growing less vigilant to her physical surroundings, she gets lost in the thoughts about grabbing coffee with Scarlet last week before her shift at the shelter. In her memory, Scarlet smiles brightly and happily, while the low late September sun reflects off of the stones on her earrings and illuminates Brooklyn in a soft glow.

Then everything is different. They’re on the train platform back home and she’s saying goodbye to Scarlet, both their expressions and the weather considerably more somber. She acts out for months afterwards, recklessly getting drunk with Kahanna and finding touches to lose herself in, to drown everything else out. The girls she goes for all have long, blonde locks and throaty laughs.

There’s a little ice cream shop back home, a bicycle ride away from Yvie’s house. It is owned by her father’s childhood best friend, Mr. Miller, and that’s why she had gotten a job and worked there the summers after her freshman and sophomore years to get some extra pocket money. She spends most of her shifts with either Mrs. Miller or their daughter Mayhem, a girl two or so years older than her.

However, the summer after her junior year everything changes. Mayhem is gone, has moved away for college and has gotten a more serious job, and in the beginning of Yvie’s first shift of the season, Mr. Miller informs her that this time around she is to get a pay raise and additional responsibilities. It sounds exciting, up to the point when he walks into the backroom of the store with Brooke Hytes in tow. Yvie will be a sort of an unofficial shift manager now, he says, while Yvie chews her tongue, her eyes narrowed and her fingers digging into her own upper arm. Responsible for both the shop and for teaching Brooke, who will work with her over this summer.

By the end of that shift, Brooke has, among many other things: refused to take out the full trash bags; asked Yvie why she should turn containers upside down when loading the dishwasher; gotten the sink clogged and left Yvie to deal with it because she’s _not touching that nasty water, are you mad_; and disappeared into the backroom to text instead of working at least twice. As Yvie shoos her out immediately after closing the store — deciding that cleaning up will be much faster alone — and carefully cashes out, she seriously considers handing in her notice the very next day. However, there’s a festival upstate she really wants to go to, she’s been planning it for months with Kahanna, and she knows the only way to pay for the tickets is by saving up for them herself.

Brooke ends up working on most evenings, and Yvie ends up dreading those shared shifts with every fibre in her body. The atmosphere in the store is tense, compressing, and there’s no conversation, just Yvie barking out instructions when she absolutely has to and Brooke somehow managing to make her distaste radiate off of her so that it’s practically audible.

It’s week three when Brooke actually stays to finish her shift after Yvie’s locked up for the first time. Yvie tells her to mop the floor while she sorts out the counter. She regrets it almost immediately, as Brooke, who’s apparently never seen a cleaning supply in her life, adds too much soap in the water and effectively turns the floor into a bubble bath.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Yvie snaps, trying to pull the mop out of Brooke’s hand. Brooke doesn’t let her.

“I’m moping,” she states with the kind of unhinged nonchalance that only people of a certain social standing are capable of achieving. “Can’t you—”

“No,” Yvie interrupts harshly. “What the fuck are you doing working here? You’re incompetent, rude, arrogant, utterly unwilling to learn, and unpleasant to be around. Why the fuck are you here, Hytes?”

There’s a flash of something dangerous in Brooke’s eyes, her lips thinning into a tight line and her posturestraightening. “Do you think I chose to be here?” she hisses lowly. “Do you think I _want_ to be here with a—”

Yvie braces herself for a homophobic remark, something easy to fall back on. Instead, Brooke pushes the mop into her hands forcefully and spits, “—fucking bitch like you, Bridges” before storming past her.

Brooke calls in sick the next day and doesn’t show up for the rest of the week, and Yvie tries to ignore the bizarre sense of uneasiness in her gut.

The week after that, the atmosphere isn’t quite charged, but there’s a certain current in the air, threatening to crackle whenever the two don’t move cautiously enough around each other. It’s a warm day. and thus rather busy. Brooke doesn’t complain once, doesn’t roll her eyes in a passive aggressive manner, either, and Yvie reckons she would be thankful if she weren’t so unsettled.

“Last fall,” Brooke starts when there’s a lull in the traffic. “At the Walters’ party.”

Yvie turns to look at her from the register, her whole body stiffening. Brooke is standing by the freezer, carefully shaping mint chocolate chip ice cream into scoops for quicker serving. Yvie swallows against something in her throat and prompts Brooke to go on with a noncommittal hum, like the party and its aftermath haven’t been replaying in her mind almost obsessively for the past nine months or so.

“We crashed that damn police car. You know the story, everybody does,” Brooke rinses the scoop in the bowl of hot water on the counter beside her, still staring in front of herself firmly. “There’s more to it than that though. Some, um, details that didn’t see the light of day.”

Her voice is quiet, soft, like she’s recalling something she doesn’t want to share with anyone else but Yvie, and Yvie’s own gets stuck in her windpipe, sour and stinging like a lump. So, she doesn’t urge Brooke to speak, just waits for her to continue.

Brooke does, after distracting herself with the mint chocolate chip for a while. “We were all high. Uh, ecstasy.”

The air rushes out of Yvie like she’s been punched in the gut. She remembers Scarlet fishing out a plastic bag from her bra, dangling it between her fingers. She remembers the pink, round pills, the mischief in Scarlet’s features when she asked Yvie if she wants one, remembers saying no and never asking what they were as Scarlet washed a pill down with vodka.

“My parents made it go away.” Brooke’s tone is robotic, void of any emotion, as if she’s reciting a well practiced line. “Just, smoothed it out with, um, money. No charges, no records for any of us.”

Yvie still doesn’t say anything, for once in her life doesn’t know how to open her mouth and respond. She watches Brooke abandon the ice cream and hastily drop the scoop in the hot water bowl before planting her palms on the counter. She turns to look at Yvie, and the emotiveness in her face is a striking contrast to the apathy of her voice, her eyes brimming with something displaced, perhaps a plea or despair.

“There was no other choice. No dance school would even consider seeing me audition if I had a drug charge,” she rushes out in one breath, her voice breaking toward the end. “I mean, _How My Experience Taking MDMA and Crashing a Stolen Police Car Will Make Me a Better Performer_ doesn’t sound like an admitted Juilliard essay, does it?”

“Okay,” Yvie says blankly.

Brooke pushes herself off the countertop and spreads her arms as if to motion around herself. “I mean, nobody even got hurt. We were just a bunch of stupid kids doing stupid stuff and it would be _insane_ to ruin our futures over this!”

“Okay,” Yvie repeats.

“God, I… Never mind,” Brooke sighs, lifting her hands up in surrender. “This is stupid, this was a stupid idea. I don’t expect you to, like, sympathise with me or shit.”

“No, it’s okay. I understand,” Yvie says, even though she doesn’t. She doesn’t understand this amount of privilege and security and power, and she doesn’t understand the concept of making one’s problems go away so easilyinstead of knowing that the consequences will be blown out of proportion. But she does understand that Brooke is distressed, and that she’s, for some ungodly reason, confiding in Yvie right now, and even that maybe, this is the first time she’s telling anyone about it.

“I just really want to get into Juilliard, I really do. I’ve been working toward it since I was four,” Brooke admits quietly.

“Okay,” Yvie nods and manages a meek half smile that probably doesn’t come off very supportive but at least isn’t a scowl.

“Anyway, my parents went ballistic, just absolutely outraged. They wanted to cut my dance lessons for a while but I need at least 10 hours a week to be eligible to apply. So, instead, they made me get a job,” Brooke explains.

“Ah,” Yvie lets out. So this is where this is going.

“They framed it as me paying them back for the money they spent on making the story go away, but like, let’s be real, $15 an hour or however little we’re getting, isn’t gonna cut it,” Brooke explains.

Yvie rolls her eyes. Of course Brooke has no idea how much they’re being paid, or what’s the appropriate wage for a teenaged ice cream store employee. Yvie doesn’t think she’s ever met anyone this detached from reality.

“To put it simply, they’re punishing me,” Brooke says with a pursed lip. “Which is, obviously, their prerogative, but it doesn’t mean I agree with it. So, yeah, if you feel like I don’t want to be here, it’s because I really do not want to be here.”

“Yeah,” Yvie says, because really, what else is there to say? So, Scarlet had gotten high on molly and ended up in a trouble severe enough to not only get her sent away but also to nearly jeopardise her entire future, and Yvie is supposed to just live with that fact and keep calling her landline only to be told Scarlet’s not available. Yvie isn’t sure if she’s happy or angry Brooke shared all these details with her.

“I’m sorry you hate working with me,” Brooke says with an offer of a tiny smile tucked persistently in the corner of her mouth.

Yvie shakes her head to conceal the way she almost releases a chuckle. Of course Brooke doesn’t really apologise for her actions, Yvie doesn’t think she’s capable of that, but somehow, seeing her slowly becoming old, unbearable Brooke again is pacifying.

“I don’t hate working with you,” she mutters. “I just, um, wouldn’t exactly be upset if you, say, quit tomorrow and never came back.”

Brooke gives her a huge eye roll, yet simultaneously her expression morphs into a full smile.

“I’m sorry I called you incompetent and arrogant,” Yvie says.

“And unpleasant to be around,” Brooke reminds faux helpfully.

“Yeah, and that,” Yvie agrees.

“I shouldn’t have called you a bitch,” Brooke says. “I mean, that’s the word that came to mind, and you were acting quite bitchy but I still shouldn’t’ve said it even if I felt it. Truce?”

Brooke shifts and accidentally kicks Yvie’s shin in her sleep, and Yvie inhales sharply, the sudden contact drawing her out of her reminiscence. Brooke doesn’t stir, just snuggles her face into her pillow, effectively getting her hair straight in Yvie’s face. Scrunching up her nose, Yvie blows individual strands out of her mouth and inches back on the sheets slightly.

Brooke settles and stops moving after that, and Yvie strains her ears to listen to the sounds of the city, absently twisting the sheet that rests over Brooke’s waist between her fingers. Blinking languidly, she lets her gaze zone out of focus.

She’s doing the dishes in the backroom of the shop, quick, swift and practiced movements that, along with the dishwasher, create enough noise to drown out the sounds coming from the front of house. The machine grows quieter in the indication of its program coming to an end. Yvie grabs the handle on it, ready to throw it open and pull the tray with the dishes out and replace it with the new one, when she hears unusual commotion.

Drying her hands on her apron, she peeks out of the backroom just in time to register Brooke mid-step as she backs down from the counter cautiously. Next, Yvie registers a customer, a middle-aged man, who also turns out to be the source of the clamour that drew her attention.

“You dumb cow!” Yvie catches him spit at Brooke, his face reddening.

“Hey,” she snaps and crosses the distance between herself and the register in a couple long strides.

It’s purely reflexive, the way she grabs Brooke’s elbow and yanks her back, behind herself as she steps between her and the man and pushes her chest out.

“What’s going on?” she demands.

Brooke shifts behind her, but the man speaks first, “This stupid girl completely messed up my fucking order multiple times. I do not want her serving me.”

Yvie tries to suppress the urge to scowl at his words and tone.

“That’s alright, sir, I’ll take care of your order,” she says coldly her jaw clenched almost painfully, and then turns to Brooke. “Could you go finish the dishes for me, please?”

Brooke’s face is pale, and she keeps rolling her bottom lip between her teeth as she nods and turns to leave.

Yvie handles the man, appeasing him with a hefty discount on his total and apologising over and over. It’s the hardest part of this job, telling bastards like him that they’re right and she’s sorry when she knows they’re not and she’s not. She would imagine offering compensation and expressing regret should feel easier when it’s on behalf of someone like Brooke, butsomehow she feels like she’s swallowing her pride nevertheless.

She serves a couple more customers, and then there’s a break in traffic. She’s just about to use the moment to fill the napkin dispensers when she’s interrupted by a loud crash followed by a tiny, defeated _Oh, fuck_.

Yvie rushes into the backroom, probably a little more alarmed than strictly necessary, to find Brooke crouched in front of a dish tray that she must’ve dropped, sending plastic containers flying everywhere.

“Hytes?”

Brooke looks up in surprise, and then immediately lowers her face and busies herself with collecting the scattered items, “I’m sorry, I just— It just slipped from my grip and I… Don’t worry about it, I’ll wash them again,” she rushes out, her voice thin, stretched out so wide it might break any moment.

“Hey,” Yvie murmurs and drops to her knees to help Brooke. “It’s all okay.”

Brooke shakes her head and presses the back of her hand against her nose, and it takes Yvie a second to realise she’s trying to conceal sniffles.

“Hey, _hey_, Brooke. Come on now, what’s wrong? It’s just dishes,” Yvie says.

“It’s not just dishes,” Brooke mumbles, her words accompanied by the tell-tail cracking of her voice. “it’s me being a fucking clumsy mess, and it’s me fucking things up all the time, and it’s me making your job harder, and it’s me messing up the— the orders, and I can’t be clumsy, I want to be a professional ballerina!”

“Is this about that man? Listen, he was—”

“No,” Brooke says and looks up at Yvie, her eyes suspiciously red now. “It’s not… not that, it’s not that. I’m completely incompetent, and— and a fucking failure at everything.”

“Hey,” Yvie says and reaches for Brooke.

Brooke flinches before Yvie has even managed to touch her, and withdraws like she’s been burnt. Yvie immediately pulls her hand away, regret and hurt washing over her.

“I’m sorry, I—”

“No, no,” Brooke hurries to say. “It’s not…You— It’s not what you think, I’m, um, sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Yvie croaks, and flops onto her ass on the floor.

Regardless of what Brooke says, Yvie suspects it’s exactly what she thinks it is. Attempting to touch Brooke was a bad idea, and it definitely crossed some sort of boundary that Brooke didn’t want crossed or she wouldn’t have reacted like a wounded animal.

“It has nothing to do with you, I’m sorry,” Brooke sighs, sounding entirely too unconvincing.

Yvie hums and crosses her legs. “Listen, that man was a power-tripping asshole. Like, we’ve all dealt with those. It’s like the customer service rite of passage and shit. You’ve practically been anointed today, so congrats are in order. And nothing he said has any truth to it, anyway.”

Brooke rolls her eyes and mirrors Yvie’s position. “You’ve literally called me incompetent, Bridges.”

“I, um,” Yvie wets her lips. “I was pushing you to do better with my criticism. It was, uh, coming from a place of love. Or something.”

Brooke blinks at Yvie, and then her expression cracks up. “That is _bullshit_, Yvonne,” she laughs and throws a plastic lid in Yvie’s general direction.

Yvie dodges the object and joins in on the laughter. “Yvonne?”

Brooke just lowers her gaze and shrugs in response, but the corners of her mouth twitch upward in a smile she doesn’t manage to conceal. The mood’s turned from slightly hysterical to something much mellower, and Yvie considers that a win.

“I think I’ll make you a huge celebratory sundae, since you’ve finally experienced being shouted at, and you can take a little break to eat it and collect yourself. What say you?” she suggests.

Brooke shrugs again, and then looks up and nods. “Yeah, I’d like that. But leave the sprinkles out, because I shouldn’t be breaking my dietary restrictions or my dance instructor will go batshit on me.”

“Oh, bitch, lack of sprinkles won’t make any difference,” Yvie rumbles softly as she hops to her feet and heads to the front, and the scene fades away in her memory.

The ice cream shop again, after closing. Yvie’s lifting the stools on the customer counter to mop the floor when Brooke speaks from where she’s restocking the condiment shelf.

“I, um, Plastique and I were supposed to go see _Inception_ tonight, but she texted me that something came up with Timmy and she can’t go after all.”

Yvie makes a noise and grabs yet another stool by its legs, flipping it around as she picks it up.

“I already got us tickets, though,” Brooke continues. “It doesn’t really matter that much, but it would be a shame to let them go to waste.”

“Uh-huh,” Yvie says and slides the last stool on the counter.

It’s been a couple or so weeks since something’s shifted in the atmosphere, and Brooke has been considerably less insufferable. Or maybe Yvie has been considerably less irritable. Either way, they’re not exactly loving their predicament, but there are times when Brooke makes Yvie laugh in a dorky manner, and times Yvie catches an endeared smile on Brooke’s face before she hides it by looking down.

“Well?” Brooke asks, demanding as ever, and Yvie knows it’s entitled, but her reaction is neutral, almost teetering on knowing amusement, rather than annoyed.

“Well, what?” she impels.

“Well, do you want to come with me? My treat,” Brooke says like it’s obvious.

Yvie stops what she’s doing and slowly turns to look at Brooke, who’s peeking at her over the counter, her own work forgotten as she’s waiting for an answer. “Are you asking me out on a date, Brooke Lynn?” Yvie asks with a shit-eating grin.

Brooke’s mouth falls open, as if she was going to say something before Yvie’s words caught up with her and rendered her speechless. She widens her eyes, her pink, pillowy lips twitching as she tries to form soundless syllables that never develop into full words.

“I didn’t…” she stutters finally.

“Oh, my God, Hytes, stop panicking. I’m joking,” Yvie chokes out, throwing her head back and releasing a full laugh. “I’d love to come with you.”

“You’re such a bitch, Bridges,” Brooke groans, her arms crossed on her chest but her tone and expression light, almost toeing the border of amused.“_A bitch_. I can drive us.”

“Okay,” Yvie says and resumes lifting chairs on the tables. “But you better get moving because we’re not leaving until every surface in this place is shining.”

A drawn out honk of a car horn snaps Yvie out of her half-slumber. Screwing her nose up, she touches her upper lip to her horseshoe septum ring, and then rolls onto her back, threading her fingers through her hair and sighing at the ceiling. The ceiling stays quiet above her, and Brooke stays quiet beside her, and the honking of cars gutters into a less pointed noise below.

Yvie scratches her head and then drops her arm over her eyes in desperation. She tries to concentrate on the blackness filling her field of vision, tries to empty her mind of its wandering thoughts, but her focus keeps wavering and her consciousness keeps slipping down the rabbit hole no matter how hard she tries to pull it back up.

“Hey, Bridges.”

Ice cream shop, again. Yvie swipes her forehead with her wrist and twists her upper body to look back without getting up. She’s crouching in front of the register, picking up the receipt slips that had ended up on the floor instead of the bin.

August has been exceptionally hot this year, nearly stifling. It’s been a hard day, probably by far the busiest one they’ve had this season, and Yvie’s muscles tremble and burn like they always do when she’s pushed herself a little bit too far. They’ve locked up fifteen or so minutes ago, and Yvie had collapsed against the door limply as soon as she had flipped the close sign, while Brooke had flopped on the counter and cheered feebly. It had felt like they’re short of at least two people all shift long, and it’s a wonder they’ve made it, especially without killing each other in the process, or even, in Yvie’s case, itching to.

Brooke is standing behind Yvie, She’s leaning against the counter sideways, and in that moment Yvie is stunned by how much she looks a dancer. Her hip is cocked just so, accentuating the dip of her waist, and her long legs are crossed, one ankle delicately behind the other as if she’s about to get en pointe or something.

It takes a moment for Yvie to notice that she’s dangling something in the air, but when she does, a surge of panic rises in her chest. Her eyes snatch from the hip flask in Brooke’s hand to the surveillance camera Mr. Miller has installed to overlook the register area. As she flicks her gaze back to Brooke, she realises that Brooke’s deliberately standing at a dead angle for the camera, and she lets out a tiny sigh of relief.

“I think we deserve this after today,” Brooke says and gives the flask a firm shake. “What do you think, Bridges?”

Yvie parts her lips and runs her tongue over them thoughtfully. She knows she should say no, that’s a given, should perhaps chastise Brooke for bringing alcohol to their work place and suggest they drink it on the job. But the ache in her muscles is dull now, tiring, and Brooke’s looking at her through heavy-lidded eyes, her mouth curving into what almost seems like a smug smirk, and it’s only a week and a half until the season’s over and they go back to school and ignore each other’s existence like they’ve done from the very beginning of their freshman year.

“Is this your idea of doing dishes, Hytes?” she pokes. “Like, you know, I told you to do?”

“Shut up, you’re not the boss of me,” Brooke says and pinches her bottom lip between her teeth to suppress a grin.

“Actually, I kind of am,” Yvie points out shittily.

“Oh, my God, _shut up_, bitch,” Brooke laughs and flips Yvie off. “Do you want a drink or not, Bridges?”

Yvie rolls her eyes halfheartedly. “Fuck it, sure,” she says and gets up, wiping her hands on her apron.

As she walks over, Brooke sets the flask on the counter she was leaning against and then plants her palms on the surface, pushing herself up on her arms. She crosses her ankles, her unrealistically white Converse dangling in the air a foot or so above the floor. While Yvie positions herself across from her, the small of her back against the ledge of the freezer sink, Brooke gathers the flask back up and opens it, one-handed, thumb and index finger unscrewing the cork unwaveringly.

“Cognac,” she says as she lets the cork fall against the side of the flask on its little leash. “Dad’s 2001 Hennessy XO Limited Edition. Have you ever had any. Bridges?”

“Have I ever had extra old cognac that’s also limited edition? What do you know, that’s literally my favourite drink,” Yvie says mock seriously. “I actually need to refill my stock, I’m running out of it in my whiskey cellar.”

“You’re an unbearable smart ass, Yvonne Bridges,” Brooke sighs and kicks her foot in Yvie’s general direction even though there’s no way she could actually reach. “I mean, have you ever had cognac?”

Yvie rolls her bottom lip between her teeth and shakes her head slightly. The movement is small, barely there, but there’s no way Brooke doesn’t notice it. Nevertheless, she doesn’t comment on it, just brings the flask up and keeps her eyes glued to Yvie as she takes a long sip.

When she’s done, she slides the tip of her tongue across her plump upper lip and extends the drink Yvie’s way. The flask is cold and weighty in her hand, and Yvie breaks eye contact to throw her head back and take a shot.

The liquor is full and smooth, like honey, with a tint of stingingly sharp aftertaste to it. Yvie feels how it warms its way down her throat and settles in her chest as a prickling heat. Sucking on her bottom lip, she passes the flask back to Brooke and finds her already staring.

“Well?” she inquires, her voice a shade smoother than the cognac.

“It’s, um… interesting,” Yvie admits, smacking her lips together.

Brooke laughs like Yvie just said something extremely funny. “Yeah, it’s an acquired taste.”

“Sounds like a sophisticated way of saying _too much of an alcoholic to care_.”

Brooke shrugs with a smirk and, in lieu of responding, drinks from the flask again before giving it back to Yvie. This time, Yvie feels the heat venturing down to the pit of her stomach and nestling there comfortably.

“This was quite a summer, huh?” Brooke notes as she takes the flask from Yvie and runs the tip of her index finger along its rim. “I almost had fun, not gonna lie.”

Yvie follows the swift movement of her slender finger with her gaze and clears her throat before speaking, “Yeah, me too, I—”

“Especially that one time when you had to swap shifts and I got to work with Mrs. Miller instead,”Brooke interrupts with a shit-eating grin. “That was by far the best shift I had.”

“Oh my fucking God, fuck right off, Brooke!” Yvie huffs loudly and feigns offense, much to Brooke’s delight.

They’re quiet for a while, passing the flask between them soundlessly. The heat from the cognac spreads through Yvie with every sip she takes until she can feel it on her cheeks and the sides of her neck.

“I will kind of miss this, though,” Brooke says eventually, and her voice has grown slower and thicker somehow.

“I’m not falling for that again,” Yvie informs her decisively. Her words feel as if they’re coated in something, too, that makes them fuller on her tongue.

“No, I mean it. This wasn’t nearly as horrible as I expected. I did have fun.”

“Please don’t steal and crash anything to get to come back here next summer,” Yvie deadpans.

Brooke snorts out a laugh, and while it’s not anything significant, it doesn’t feel completely insignificant, either. It’s a small silly sound but it’s such a contrast to how poised and composed Brooke usually appears, and Yvie wonders whether this relaxed version of her is something that some people get to see more often.

They fall silent for a bit again. The flask is over halfway empty now, and the liquid keeps sloshing against the metal as they hand it back and forth. Yvie senses how the tension dissipates from her achy muscles, leaving her listless and her movements leisurely. She gets lost in thought, and doesn’t pay much mind to the rhythmic motion between Brooke and herself until Brooke shifts visibly and, straightening her posture, takes a gulp far longer than her previous ones. Yvie cocks her head curiously and observes how Brooke lowers the flask on the counter beside her thigh and drags her teeth over her lower lip prior to speaking.

“What is it like, Yvie?”

“What is what like?” Yvie murmurs in a lazy, cognac-laced baritone.

“I, um…” Brooke presses her lips together and casts her gaze down, a strand of hair that’s escaped her high ponytail during the hurries of the shift falling over her well-defined brow. She fiddles with the cork of the flask absently, and then shakes her head to get the lock out of her face and look back up. “You know. Liking girls… Um, being with girls, and uh, kissing them?”

The question catches Yvie off guard. They’ve never really acknowledged her lesbianism, at least not directly, even though Yvie knows that Brooke knows, has heard the scarce offhand comment she’s made about it. There’s an alcohol-induced flush on Brooke’s cheeks, easily noticeable against the fair complexion of her skin. Yvie blinks, then forces herself to swallow, and feels her heart racing in her windpipe.

“Why, Brooke?”she husks lowly, much lower than she intended.

“I—” Brooke starts, but before she gets further than that, Yvie pushes herself off of the freezer with her abs and closes the distance between them in two long strides. Her hips bump against Brooke’s knees, and, like a reflex, Brooke’s legs fall open to accommodate Yvie.

“You wanna try it perhaps?”

She flattens her palms on the counter, either side of Brooke, and presses closer, her back arching instinctively as she tilts her chin up to look at the girl. Brooke stills, her eyes wide and her pouty lips, reddened and slick from her gnawing on them, part a little. Their nearness allows Yvie to hear how Brooke’s breath hitches, allows her to smell the mixture of the alcohol and Brooke’s floral perfume, sense the unfamiliar but inviting warmth of her frame.

The two of them maintain their wordless eye contact for some drawn out seconds. Then, Brooke’s stare wavers and drops down to Yvie’s mouth, and before she can say or do anything, Yvie pushes herself back off the counter,grabbing the flask as she goes.

“Oh, my God,” she wheezes, stumbling backward and doubling over with laughter. “Oh, fucking Christ, you should’ve seen your face, Brooke Lynn!”

She slumps back against the freezer, the remnants of her laugh still striving out of her. Brooke appears stunned, her mouth wide open in a scandalised manner.

“Don’t worry, gay isn’t contagious, Hytes,” Yvie chuckles. “God, you really got scared I’d kiss you, eh?”

“You are an _asshole_, Bridges!” Brooke yelps and throws the first item she can reach at Yvie.

Yvie ducks out of the way with another fit of laughter and runs into the safety of the backroom.

The school hallway. Yvie’s elbows deep in her locker when she hears someone lean against the one next to her. Interrupting her digging, she closes the door partway only to come face to face with Brooke.

She frowns and glances around, but nothing in the corridor betrays Brooke’s motivation to suddenly acknowledge her existence in such a direct fashion. Her posse isn’t around, either, so Yvie assumes this is not some kind of a dare situation. Fixing her gaze back on Brooke, she raises a brow.

“Bridges,” Brooke says nonchalantly, like them interacting is normal in any capacity. “The Walters’ party this weekend. Go with me?”

“Uh, what?” Yvie asks stupidly.

Brooke sighs and readjusts her handbag on her shoulder with an annoyedly patient look. “Every year, the Walters’ twins throw this—”

“No, I know what the Walters’ party is,” Yvie cuts her off. “It’s that, um, latter part I’m confused about.”

“I’m asking you to go to the party with me,” Brooke states matter-of-factly.

“I, uhh,” Yvie swallows the _why_ that forms on her tongue. “Promised Kahanna I’d go with her.”

“Perfect, invite her with,” Brooke chirps without missing a beat. “We’ll just go as a group. I’m sure the girls will love to hang out with her. I’ll pick you up at five?”

“Uhh, okay,” Yvie manages, and Brooke sends her a dazzling smile before rushing off.

“This party sucks.”

The Walters’ party. Ariel flops against the counter, right next to Brooke who’s perched on it and across from Yvie, who’s standing next to the blonde. Putting her elbow on the surface and dropping her chin in her palm, Ariel looks up at the two with a pronounced pout.

“I don’t remember it being this boring in the previous years,” she sighs loudly over the music. “Was it this boring in the previous years?”

“I bet it’s because we’re seniors. Everyone else is literally younger than us.”

Yvie glances in the direction of the speaker and sees Plastique approach behind Ariel, Kahanna in tow. Kahanna scans the situation,noting Yvie’s closeness to Brooke, and shoots Yvie a narrow-eyed, knowing look that Yvie ignores, shuffling her weight from foot to foot. Brooke hums and checks the time on her brand new iPhone 4.

“It’s barely past midnight,” she notes. “Do we wanna get out? Go to the station, maybe?”

Ariel tilts her head to the side with pursed lips. “Do we have anything to get trashed off of?”

“Um, I have some weed on me,” Yvie says, her voice cracking a little.

Brooke sends Yvie a brief but appreciative smile before finishing the drink she’s holding in one gulp. Then, she twists her upper body and snatches a large, unopened bottle of vodka from behind herself.

“And we have booze,” she announces.

“Is that yours?” Yvie asks suspiciously.

“It is now,” Brooke winks and slides off the counter gracefully.

Ariel lets out an obnoxiously loud giggle and reaches over the counter to grab two more full bottles. Handing them to Plastique and Kahanna, she then gathers a stack of Solo cups and a six-pack of Coke, stuffing it under her arm.

“Let’s go then, bitches,” she says and pushes past Plastique and Kahanna.

“Hold on, where exactly are we going?” Kahanna calls after her, while Brooke pats Yvie’s shoulder and gently nudges her forward.

The old fire station in the northeast of the town. It was abandoned some years prior, when the construction of a more modern one was finished in a more accessible location in the west, and nobody saw the old building as an investment opportunity. One of the doors up back gives way easily when Plastique presses her weight against it, and grinds open on its creaky hinges.

“This is one of our favourite hangout spots,” Brooke tells Yvie quietly. “The view from upstairs is breathtaking.”

“Oh man, this place is so cool. I thought it’s all locked up and shit,” Kahanna whistles as she follows Plastique to the staircase.

“It was,” says Ariel. “Girl, we had this tiny saw that wasmore like a nail file, I swear, and it took us _hours_ to break the padlock on the backdoor. That’s why we don’t tell about this place to people and don’t bring just anyone here. The third step from the bottom is about to collapse, so be careful there, baby.” Her voice is sweet, but it’s impossible to miss the obvious warning edge in it.

Yvie climbs up the stairs after Brooke, hopping over the third step as per her example. When they reach the top floor, Kahanna is already by one of the huge, glassless windows, staring out and whooping in excitement. Ariel drops the plastic bag filled with the stolen alcohol by a bundle of throw blankets on the floor, while Plastique turns on multiple strings of lights draped all over the place.

“What do you think, Bridges?” Brooke murmurs.

“It’s pretty,” Yvie says equallyquietly, as if the atmosphere requires it to not be broken.

“Let’s go sit over there,” Brooke suggests and leads Yvie to one of the blankets, spread on the ground to provide a more comfortable seat.

Yvie flops on the fabric next to Brooke and crosses her legs, while Brooke outstretches hers in front of herself, hooking one ankle over the other. Out of the corner of her eye, Yvie observes how she reaches into the pocket of her colourful designer windbreaker. She produces a pack of menthol cigarettes and extends it Yvie’s way.

Yvie takes one, and Brooke pulls out one for herself before flipping the pack closed and shoving it back into her pocket. In the meantime, Yvie digs her lighter out of her jean pocket and leans in to ignite Brooke’s cigarette and then does the same with her own.

“Hey, B, mixed or straight?” Ariel inquires from where she’s sat on a blanket a tiny bit farther from Brooke and Yvie.

Yvie watches as Brooke blows out a cloud of smoke and then scratches the tip of her nose with the blunt nail of her thumb. “What we got?”

“Coke Zero,” Plastique says. She’s sitting next to Ariel, occupied with the contents of the plastic bag, handing them to Ariel.

“Mixed, then.” Brooke hums absently.

Ariel measures alcohol and Coke into a Solo cup and hands it to Brooke, and then fixes her attention on Yvie and points the neck of the vodka bottle at her. “You, Bridges?”

“Uh, I’ll take mixed, too,” she mumbles.

As she waits for Ariel to give her the drink, Brooke sets her own down and, resting her cigarette between her painted lips, reaches for something past Yvie. As if compulsively, Yvie’s gaze lowers to survey her, and in the dim twinkle of the fairy lights, she notices tiny freckles littered across Brooke’s cheekbone and the way little baby hairs curl by her ear.

Before anyone can notice Yvie’s staring, Brooke straightens up and places something between them. Yvie rapidly shifts her attention to the object. It’s a glass jar partially filled with cigarette stubs.

“Ashtray,” Brooke explains, even though it’s obvious without saying.

“Here, bitch,” Ariel’s shrill voice pierces the air and forces Yvie to stop ogling Brooke. Or her hands on the jar as she is opening it.

“Damn, I can see the entire town from up here, it’s incredible!” Kahanna is breathless when she walks up to the blanket Ariel and Plastique are sitting on and flops next to Plastique.

“It’s really nice at night in the summer,” Brooke says, and then glances at Yvie. “You know, when the sun is setting.”

“Girl, you weren’t here to decide what you’re drinking, so I decided for you. You’re getting a glass of vodka,” Ariel tells Kahanna, who just shrugs nonchalantly and takes the cup.

“We need music,” Plastique says.

She chooses a playlist on her phone and turns it on, and the rest of the girls settle into the rhythm of drinking and chattering. Yvie finishes her cigarette and drops it into the ashtray jar, then pulls one of her knees close to her chest and sips her vodka Coke.

“How have you been, Yvonne?” Brooke asks. “Miss me much?”

“Clearly not asmuch as you do me, Hytes,” Yvie notes, keeping her voice level and teasing.

“Bitch,” Brooke laughs softly and knocks her shoulder against Yvie’s solidly.

Yvie snorts gracelessly and lifts her cup higher in the air to avoid spillage. “Hey, I’m not the one inviting you to parties and shit.”

“You know, I’m starting to suspect I did you too much justice in my mind. What is it that they say about memories? That they grow sweeter with time, was it?”

“Aw, Brookie,” Yvie whines, pushing her bottom lip out mockingly and trying to poke Brooke’s cheek with her index finger. “I’ve missed you too, _soooo _much.”

Brooke swats Yvie’s hand away with a series of ringing giggles. “Stop Bridges, ow, oh my God, _stop_, I swear I’ll fight you.”

“Hey Bridges, did you say you have weed on you?”

Yvie quickly pulls her hand away from where she’s been trying to jab her fingers between Brooke’s ribs, feeling weirdly like she’s been caught doing something she’s not supposed to. The rest of the group is eying the two with poorly concealed fascination. Beside Yvie, Brooke clears her throat and looks down, scratching her brow, and Yvie senses, how her own cheeks flush.

“Um, yeah, hold on,” she mutters and produces an old rectangular tin from her pocket. She tosses it to Ariel, who catches it easily. “I’ve pre-rolled a couple.”

Ariel pops the tin open and carefully picks up one of the joints Yvie assembled before the party. “Are we gonna share the one, or…?”

“I think we can just light up two straight away,” Yvie shrugs. She leaves the implication that her and Brooke would share one unvoiced, but she’s rather sure everyone gets it either way.

Ariel nods and shuts the tin with a click. While she throws it back to Yvie, Brooke gets her lighter out and passes it to Plastique, who helpsAriel lit the joint. Yvie retrieves one for the two of them and hands it to Brooke, pocketing the tin and then getting nearer to the girl to spark up. There’s a sharp sound of the paper burning as Yvie brings the flame close to the tip of the joint. Then Brooke leans back on her hand and takes a long drag, her eyes fluttering closed.

For a while, Ariel, Plastique, and Kahanna giggle about something among themselves, and Brooke and Yvie smoke in relative silence.Eventually, Brooke brushes their shoulders together in a motion that seems deliberate. Yvie inhales a lungful and turns to look at her quizzically.

“Can you believe we’re doing all this for the last time?” Brooke asks and gestures around with her hand. “Like, you know, the Walter’s party and the whole going back to school thing, all of it.”

“Yeah,” Yvie breathes out with a cloud of smoke. “It’s a little crazy.”

“This time next year I’l hopefully be at Juilliard, dancing my feet raw. If I get in, that is,” Brooke muses and takes the joint Yvie’s offering her, fitting it between her lips.

“You’ll get in,” Yvie assures, pressing her chin on her bent knee and toying with the hem of her jeans.

“You don’t know that.”

“I know you’re talented. And determined.”

Brooke lets out a noncommittal hum and puffs on the joint, her gaze fixed forward as Yvie studies her in her peripheral vision. Blowing out smoke, she takes another, smaller, drag, and passes the joint back.

“What are your plans, Yvonne?”

Yvie doesn’t rush to reply, sucks on the joint thoughtfully instead.

“Kinda wanna go to an art school,” she says after a bit.

“Mmm,” Brooke sounds approving. “Where?”

“I don’t know. Chicago. San Francisco. Denver. New York City. Anywhere.”

“New York’s full of great art schools,” Brooke notes. “Full of opportunities, too.”

Yvie nods curtly and allows her eyes wander to one of the big windows. Kahanna was right, the whole town is visible from up here, and the view is exquisite. Yvie regards the bright lights of the neighbourhoods, the way they’re like illuminated isles separated by areas of darkness. The night’s clear and chilly, but not cold, like there’s still remnants of the scorching summer heat in the atmosphere.

“You know, I can totally see it, though,” Brooke speaks.

“See what?” Yvie inquires, turning to look back at her.

“The whole, like, rebellious lesbian artist thing you have going on.”

Yvie can’t help the snort that escapes her at Brooke’s words. “I have no such thing going on, Hytes.”

“Yeah?” Brooke shifts a little and draws her legs closer to herself, planting her elbow on one of her knees. “That’s a shame, I think it’s sort of hot.”

Yvie rolls her eyes to distract from her fluster, Brooke or herself, she’s not entirely sure. Lowering her chin, she extracts a cigarette from the pack she’s got on her and concentrates on the nicotine hitting her system and intertwining with the weed and alcohol she’s consumed.

As they leave the fire station hours later, Brooke and her walk slightly behind the rest of the group, and Brooke’s knuckles brush against Yvie’s, but Yvie doesn’t take her hand.

“So, I’ve finished my Juilliard essay.”

The school hallway. Yvie stops fiddling with the lock on her locker and shoots Brooke a cocked eyebrow.

“Jesus, Brooke, it’s like, October. The applications aren’t due for ages.”

“It’s not ages, it’s only a couple months. Juilliard’s deadline is in the beginning of December,” Brooke states and throws her high ponytail over her shoulder. “Besides, I want it to be perfect, and this way I have time to get it proofread and edit it.”

“Like it already isn’t perfect,” Yvie scoffs good-naturedly. “You’ve been planning this since you were four.”

“Factual. Which is exactly why I need your help, if you, y’know, wouldn’t mind reading it through?”

This time, Yvie raises both eyebrows. “Listen, I’m good at English but I’m not _that_ good.”

“Yeah, but you know me,” Brooke says. “And you have your whole no bullshit attitude. And I need you to read it and tell me if it, you know, shows who I am as a person, not just a ballerina. I can’t trust Ari and ‘Stique to be as honest with me as you will, and nobody else knows me as well as you three.”

“Oh,” Yvie says stupidly. “I mean, yeah, sure.”

“Thanks, boo. Meet you in the library on our free period?” Brooke chirps before giving Yvie’s forearm a gentle squeeze and running off.

The front of Brooke’s dance studio. Brooke’s been practising tirelessly for weeks, ever since she got invited to the live audition, and even though Yvie’s been to the studio at times, mainly to make sure Brooke doesn’t dance herself to death, she still feels weirdly awkward and agitated as she pulls open the door and steps in.

She hears the music before she rounds the corner and sees Brooke. The ballerina is wearing a pair of pink leggings, pointe shoes, and a sports bra, her hair in a tight bun and her muscles straining and toning up with the effort of her movement. Yvie stops in the doorway and leans her shoulder against the frame, folding her arms on her chest. She knows Brooke’s seen her and doesn’t want to interrupt her, opting instead to watch her.

Yvie recognises what Brooke is doing immediately. The choreography is the one she’s been preparing for her solo performance should she advance that far in the audition process. Yvie knows Brooke isn’t satisfied with herself, not fully, claims she should be doing a better job of it, even though Yvie is impressed every single time she sees Brooke dance.

And so, Yvie bites her lip and, with bated breath, observes how the music reaches its peak and Brooke’s body successfully flows into a double fouetté.

As she lands on her feet and gets en point to finish off the routine, her face breaks into a bright, happy smile. Yvie pushes herself off the doorframe and spreads her arms in amazement, mirroring Brooke’s expression.

“Did you see that?” Brooke gasps.

“You did it,” Yvie grins.

“I did it!”

She takes off and sprints into Yvie’s arms, and Yvie catches her, the impact making her stumble backwards couple paces. Brooke hugs her neck, and without thinking, Yvie grabs her waist and spins her around lightly.

“I did it, Yvie,” Brooke repeats breathlessly and draws Yvie into a kiss.

Yvie freezes. For as much as she has entertained the idea of kissing Brooke in the past months, sometimes even dreamed of it, it actually happening didn’t seem plausible, and now that it is, she doesn’t know how to react. Her grip on Brooke goes slack, and there’s a short moment in which Brooke’s soft lips stop moving against hers. Then, Brooke pulls away.

“I— I’m sorry, I—” she stutters.

There’s worry on her face, and something akin to embarrassment, and Yvie wants to kick herself for freaking out right now of all moments.

“God, no, I’m sorry,” she rushes out and lifts one of her hands to the side of Brooke’s neck.

Brooke wets her lips and looks at Yvie with wide,earnest eyes, and all Yvie can think of is _fuck it_. She surges forward and kisses Brooke, hard and determined. Brooke whimpersand tenses for a beat, and then immediately melts into the contact, kissing back and trying to get closer to Yvie.

“I got the letter.”

Yvie’s kitchen. She’s sitting at the table, fiddlingwith the envelope from one of the art colleges in NYC she’s applied to. She’s also holding her phone to her ear.

“Well? What does it say?” Brooke demands on the other side of the line.

“I don’t know,” Yvie says. “I called you before opening it.”

“Come on, open it, baby, I’m dying to find out,” Brooke urges.

“Stay on the line with me?”

“Of course.”

Yvie shoulders the phone. There are nervous butterflies in the pit of her stomach as she tears the envelope open. She doesn’t know what not getting in would mean, not for her future and plans, not for her and Brooke. She doesn’t want to think about it, either. She retrieves the letter and turns it over, eyes scanning the text.

“Brooke.”

“What?”

“I got in,” Yvie chokes out. “I— I’m in, we’re going.”

“Oh, my God,” Brooke shrieks. “Oh, my God, baby. We’re going to New York.”

“We’re going to New York, Broo bear,” Yvie echoes, her voice still stunned and distant.

Brooke releases a hearty laugh that makes Yvie’s chest feel full and tight. “We’re going to New York. Together. I love you so much, baby.”

“I love you, too, Brooke,” Yvie smiles, hiding her face in her hand. “Do you wanna come over?”

In the New York apartment, Yvie finally drifts to sleep.


	5. We Don't Stick Together

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello and sorry for another long gap in updates ! i hope you enjoy this chapter, and any and all feedback is very much appreciated. you can always find me on [tumblr](https://scarletenvy.tumblr.com/) !
> 
> a huge thank you to [phryne](https://phrynewrites.tumblr.com/) for her continuous support and betaing this chapter. she’s truly the reason this fic even happens .x 
> 
> In previous chapter: Yvie took a trip down the memory lane  
This chapter: Yvie and Aja take inventory — literally and figuratively.

“Ma, there is nothing, and I mean _nothing, _I hate more than this toothpick counting bullshit. There’s another pack and a half of straws, and this? Is bullshit.”

“I know,” Yvie sighs and writes the figure down in the legal pad laid beside her on the bar counter before going back to the inventory software on her laptop.

“Oh, fuck me in the ass, sis,” Aja groans frustratedly. “Who the fuck does this shit?”

Yvie’s phone vibrates by the laptop, but she ignores it in favour of looking at Aja, who’s holding up three more nearly empty packs of straws and shaking them.

“This,” she says. “Is why taking inventory is never straightforward in this hellhole.”

“And here I thought it’s because this is a gay club,” Yvie smirks.

“Ma,” Aja shrieks. “No. No. Send me the fuck home.”

Yvie snorts and watches as Aja starts to combine the straws in one pack. “You know, every single one of us has grabbed a new pack without checking if there’s an opened one beforehand in a rush, and then just stuck it somewhere.”

“Well that’s bullshit. Maybe we should let Kamy implement that neurotic organisation system of hers,” Aja mutters.

“That would be admitting defeat, and I am not ready for that conversation just yet,” Yvie notes and picks her phone up, turning it around and checking it.

Scarlet, with all the emojis following her contact name intact, has texted asking what Yvie’s up to. Unlocking the phone, Yvie types out a quick reply and sets the device down without locking it again.

**Yvie:** Inventory at the club lol im dying send help

The phone vibrates with a reply before Yvie’s managed to even pretend to concentrate on inserting the inventory information into the program. Subtly, she taps the screen before it dims and checks the message.

**Scarlet: **Lol sweet, can I stop by?

“So it’s two full packs instead of one and a half, got it?”

Yvie shoots a rapid _Yeah sure _in response, then hums at Aja in acknowledgment and writes the correction down in her notes.

“I should order less shit,” she mumbles at her laptop screen.

“No you shouldn’t, bitch. Halloween’s coming up, we will be short on shit this month,” Aja says. “Okay, let’s do napkins next.”

They’ve managed to go through the napkins and one of the beer fridges when Scarlet shows up, cheeks and the tip of her nose flushed rosy from the wind outside. She wears an oversized, soft-looking sweater and a pair of leggings, paired with black Converse and a huge scarf around her neck. She also carries a drink tray with two coffees and a pastry bag that she waves at Yvie when she rounds the corner.

“Is the front door unlocked on purpose?” she asks as she approaches.

Aja lets out a noise that’s equal parts noncommittal and negative, and Yvie shrugs and shakes her head, but neither makes a move to go and lock the door.

Scarlet reaches the counter and sets the coffees and the pastry bag down. She gets on her tiptoes to give Yvie a one-armed hug, and Yvie reflexively wraps her own arm around Scarlet’s waist and hooks her chin over Scarlet’s shoulder.

“Howdyoo.”

“Hi, babes,” Scarlet giggles breathily and lets go of Yvie.

She disentangles her scarf from around her neck. Dropping it and her handbag on one of the bar stools, she climbs into the one right next to Yvie, who just moves her legal pad to the right-hand side to give Scarlet more space. Wordlessly, Scarlet pulls one of the cups out of its little slot in the tray and hands it to Yvie.

“Aw, Yvie didn’t mention you’re here, too, Aja, or I would’ve brought you a coffee as well,” she says with a pronounced pout as she unwraps her straw and sticks it into her iced black coffee.

Yvie takes a sip of her own beverage. It’s exactly how she likes it, a hot brew with a heavy splash of half-and-half and a little bit of sugar, and she hides her satisfied smile against the lid of the cup.

“That’s fine, sis,” Aja purrs with a shit-eating grin and plops her elbows on the counter across from the two, laying her chin in her palms. “I am just _over the moon_ that _you_ visit Yvie at work.”

She shoots Yvie a smug, pointed look and grabs Scarlet’s drink to slurp it. Immediately, her face contorts and she slams the cup down, her nose scrunching up in disgust and shock.

“Ma, what the fuck is that?”

Scarlet laughs lightheartedly and picks the beverage up, sipping it before replying. “That’s an iced red-eye, unsweetened.”

“What the kind fuck of monstrosity?” Aja shrieks, pouring herself soda from one of the dispensers.

“It’s cold brew with a shot of espresso,” Yvie says. As she turns to look at Scarlet, she catches her beaming at her appreciatively, like remembering her coffee order is something noteworthy. “Isn’t it a little late for that?”

“I’ve a night shift today,” Scarlet hums. “I’m headed there, I just decided to stop by on my way. I brought you a muffin.”

“Night shift?” Yvie frowns, knowing that her worry is etched in the crease of her brow.

Scarlet nods, eyes eagerly wide while her cheeks hollow as she takes a long drink. “Yeah, I do them occasionally. God, don’t look so worried, Yves, it’s all fine.”

“Yeah, but—”

“Yvangeline Bridges, you’re one to talk when we’re literally at your night club. Where you work _nights_. Stop fussing,” Scarlet orders firmly, but with a gentle, almost pleased undertone.

“Aww, isn’t it just adorable how you two care about each other,” Aja interrupts the pair with a coo, slipping back in her position with her face in her hands and smiling up at Yvie obnoxiously. “It’s almost like—”

“_Aja_,” Yvie cuts her off warningly. She has no idea what Aja was about to say, but she knows her well enough to guess that it wouldn’t have been anything good. “Don’t you have Redbulls to count?”

Aja rolls her eyes and pushes herself off the counter, muttering something under her breath. Ignoring her, Yvie takes the raspberry muffin Scarlet’s offering her, and knocks it against Scarlet’s own jokingly, like clinking champagne glasses.

“How have you been?” she asks.

“I’m good, babes. Did I tell you I went to see _The Rocky Horror Show _with Nicky and Rifi at this tiny theatre the other day? It was _so_ good.”

“You didn’t,” Yvie says through a bite of her muffin. “I love _Rocky Horror_.”

“Ugh, you would’ve _adored_ this one! It was so bizarre and messy, like even more bizarre than the more traditional productions,” Scarlet gushes.

“Ma, there’s two full bottles of vodka in here, and one half-full,” Aja calls over her shoulder.

“You seem to like the theatre a lot, huh?” Yvie muses and tries to write the number Aja gave her with her right hand. Quickly noticing that it’s proving impossible, she sighs and reaches over her laptop to scribble with her left one. “Wouldn’t have taken you for a Broadway gay.”

Scarlet giggles and kicks her toes against Yvie’s ankle. “E-eve-e, I’m not a Broadway gay. But I do love performing arts so, so much. I try to go see something fairly often.”

“_Broadway gay_,” Yvie mouths nearly soundlessly.

Scarlet lets out a pouty sound and slaps Yvie’s bicep. “You’re the worst, Yvangeline.”

“That’s right, _Yvangeline_,” Aja inserts entirely too unhelpfully. “Show some appreciation for performing arts — isn’t that your girlfriend’s livelihood?”

“Is Brooke an artist?” Scarlet asks in a high pitch before Yvie’s managed to send Aja a death stare.

“Yeah,” she shrugs dismissively, glancing at Scarlet and then concentrating on her laptop keyboard. “She’s signed with a, uh, a ballet company.”

“That’s so cool,” Scarlet says, and Yvie thinks she imagines the way her voice dips in the middle of the sentence. “Do you go to see her perform often?”

Yvie shrugs again, desperately wanting the subject to shift to something else already. “I dunno, sometimes.”

“More often than Brooke visits our Yvie here, that’s for sure,” Aja interjects.

“Aja, don’t you want to take a little break or something?” Yvie hisses.

“Nah, I’m good, I’m quite enjoying this,” Aja smiles snidely.

“Oh, well, she’s probably busy practising and all,” Scarlet says lightly, like she’s unaware of the tension between Aja and Yvie. “She was always too busy practising, even back in high school. She wanted to get into Juilliard, was it? Did she ever end up going? I have a friend who went and she’s, like, _swamped_ with work all the time.”

“She did,” Yvie mutters.

“And that is why Yvie is now stuck accompanying her to all the lil Juilliard graduate events.” Aja places her hand near her mouth like she’s trying to stop Yvie hearing and whispers loudly, “Having a black lesbian girlfriend increases her woke points.”

Yvie groans and throws her pen in Aja’s direction, aiming for her head but hitting her shoulder instead. “That’s not true,” she argues. “Aja’s just bitter because she hates inventory and I’m missing our annual Halloween plans this year.”

This is a disagreement they’ve visited more than once and that keeps resurfacing no matter how many times they’ve been over it. Aja is sure Brooke’s dragging Yvie around — or maybe even dating her — to seem more progressive than she is, and she won’t change her mind, regardless of how much Yvie tells her that’s bullshit and that for all her flaws, Brooke would never do something like that.

Yvie doesn’t quite know where Aja’s dislike of Brooke originates from, but what she’s aware of is that the feeling is mutual — Brooke’s distaste of Aja is just as apparent. It’s a part of Yvie’s life she’s had to learn how to balance and keep separated, and it doesn’t bother her as much as Aja seems to assume it does. Brooke and herself have different tastes in friends, and she supposes keeping distinct friend groups is actually healthy for any relationship, even if she ends up hanging out with Brooke’s company more often than Brooke does the same for her.

Scarlet releases an airy laugh and slurps her coffee, then points the cup at Aja. “You have annual Halloween plans? I’ve never been big on Halloween, but I love that you have traditions.”

Aja launches into an explanation of the big party Valentina’s throwing and the costume she’s going to wear, and while Scarlet listens, making all the right noises in all the right places, Yvie checks her phone. Kahanna’s apparently gotten off work over in Europe, because there’s texts from her, replying to the messages Yvie sent her earlier and also detailing some wardrobe malfunction she had during one of her dance numbers. Yvie skims through the notifications without unlocking the phone, snorts at one of Kahanna’s graphic depictions of what she was thinking in the moment, and thus draws Scarlet’s attention.

“Everything okay?” she inquires, placing a gentle hand on Yvie’s wrist.

“Oh, yeah.” Yvie nods and puts her phone down, deciding she’ll respond later. “It’s just Kahanna, you know, being Kahanna.”

“Oh, oh my God, you’re still in touch with ‘Hanna? Is she here in New York?” Scarlet beams.

“Uh, no, she’s in Europe right now. She’s touring with some tiny band, she’s their background dancer.”

“Oh, that’s so fun,” Scarlet says around the straw of her drink. “She turn out to be gay, too?”

“God, no,” Yvie laughs. “She’s too into dick for that, bless her poor soul.”

Scarlet lets out a giggle and scrunches up her nose. “And here I thought everyone you interacted with in high school turned out gay. I’m convinced it’s all on you. You have, like, a Midas touch, but it’s gay… A Gaydas touch!”

“_A Gaydas touch_?” Yvie repeats with mock exasperation. “Really, Scarlet? You’re so stupid.”

Scarlet just shrugs her shoulders and grins around her straw. “Tell her I said hi next time you talk to her.”

“Will do, ma’am,” Yvie says diligently, making Scarlet squeal in excited endearment.

“I think we should order a new batch of spouts, I feel like we’ve lost a couple,” Aja mumbles as she goes through the bottles of alcohol in the refrigerator sink on the work surface.

“Nah, I’m pretty sure we should have some unused ones in one of the office drawers, I gotta check when I go there,” Yvie says with a shake of her head. “We need to be more careful when we wash them, I feel that’s where we lose them.”

“Hi lesbians, why is the front door unlocked?”

Yvie looks over her shoulder to see Kameron come in, dangling a set of keys on a colourful rainbow lanyard as she strides across the dance floor. “Hi, Yvie. Hi, Aja. Ooh, hi mystery girl.”

Scarlet rolls around on her stool instead of continuing to twist her neck to look at Kameron and gives a little wave. “Hi, I’m Scarlet.”

“Yeah, that’s Scarlet, Yvie’s—”

“—Childhood friend,” Yvie inserts before Aja says something inappropriate again. “Scarlet, this is Kameron, the person I should’ve actually made my assistant manager.”

“Hey!” Aja protests noisily.

“Hi, Kameron,” Scarlet greets with a little wave of her hand.

“Nice to meet you, Scarlet,” Kameron grins, and then turns her attention to Aja and Yvie. “Inventory? You two ready to let me reorganise this mess?”

“No,” Aja says at the same time as Yvie says, “We’re doing great, actually.”

Kameron releases a throaty laugh and shakes her lanyard in the air, sending it wrapping around her knuckles. “Whatever you say. I can’t stay anyway, I’m only here to pick up the charger I forgot, and then I gotta bounce.”

“Ma, who the fuck says that?” Aja mutters when Kameron’s disappeared behind the flip door to the backroom, and Yvie doesn’t manage to compress a snort that escapes her at Aja’s scandalised tone. “Hey, Yves, you think we can bullshit the rest of these numbers and _bounce_, too?”

“As your boss I should say no, but as someone who’s done with this I really wanna say yes.”

“Not to, like, criticise your methods, but how the fuck did you make manager, Yvie?” Scarlet says, her voice light enough to be clear she’s joking.

“Duh, I slept with the owner,” Yvie deadpans without missing a beat.

Aja screams, and Scarlet blinks at Yvie, the corners of her mouth turning up into a bemused smile. “You what?”

“Oh, my God, Scarlet,” Yvie cracks up. “The owner is a gay guy, so I didn’t sleep with him. Jesus, gross.”

“Oh,” Scarlet breathes out and nudges Yvie’s knee with her own playfully. “I got so confused for a moment.”

Yvie shakes her head, the remnants of laughter still striving out of her in tiny, subsiding bursts. “No, I didn’t fuck anyone to get anywhere. ‘Sides, I have a girlfriend.”

“Nice save, Bridges,” Aja mumbles anything but quietly. “Hey, bitch, where are you going? And why do you seem so chipper?” she asks suspiciously before Yvie’s had the chance to react to her remark.

She turns her gaze from Scarlet to see what’s caught Aja’s attention, notorious for only being enough for one object at a time, finding that she’s speaking to Kameron.

“Asia needs a new dining table, so we’re gonna go shop for that,” Kameron says, shoving the charger she was after into her tote bag,

“I wonder what happened to her old one,” Aja says slyly and, without awaiting a response, wags her eyebrows and motions in a vulgar manner.

“You’re exhausting, Aj,” Kameron sighs and rolls her eyes sternly but good-naturedly. “We didn’t break her table fucking. She just needs a new one because we’re inviting her and my friends over for a little so… su— sui…”

“Soiree?” Scarlet and Yvie suggest in unison. It’s not really significant, but the way their reactions match and their voices weave together makes the sides of Yvie’s neck feel a little warmer.

“That’s the word,” Kameron agrees, making finger guns in the direction of the two.

“First of all,” Aja yells. “Why weren’t I invited to this swuaree? And secondly, you’re already mixing your friend groups? Sis, you’ve known each other for like 3.5 seconds.”

“First is because you can’t behave,” Kameron states with unbudging nonchalance. “And secondly, we’ve been going out for like two months already. It’s going really good so far, and we’ve talked about being exclusive and stuff. I think I’m gonna ask her to be my girlfriend soon.” She glances at the sports watch on her wrist and bounces on her heels. “Okay, now I _really_ gotta go, I’m almost late. I’ll lock y’all in here, a’ight?”

She wiggles her fingers goodbye at the trio and departs swiftly, her fiery ponytail swinging from side to side to the rhythm of her steps like some sort of weird fascinator.

“Ma, as per usual,” Aja starts with an air of grandioseness to her words. “Kameron’s the one who has her life together. How the fuck does she do it?”

“I have no idea,” Yvie sighs, still staring after Kameron even though she’s already disappeared. “I’m telling you she’ll be married with a retirement plan, a day-time job, and three cats before we’ve even begun to get our life together.

“If only there were someone you could propose to. Like, I don’t know, your girlfriend of nine years, or someone. If only…” Aja trails off.

Yvie wheels around and flips Aja off. “We’ve been together for seven years. which is, coincidentally, as long as you’ve had a crush on Farrah without doing a single thing about it, so you’re one to talk,” she snarls halfheartedly.

Beside her, Scarlet shifts, and as Yvie looks over at her, she produces a thin, almost breathless laugh, her tight-lipped smile not quite reaching her eyes. Before Yvie can think of something, anything, to say, Scarlet plops her elbow on the counter and leans her chin on her palm, wiggling her brows at Aja.

“So, who’s this Farrah, then?”

Aja shoots Yvie a murderous look, and then launches into a long, elaborate story about Farrah, who’s, she’s convinced, is her soulmate and the love of her life, but who she’s too big a coward to ask out or confess her feelings to. Scarlet listens carefully, engaged in the way Yvie knows she gets when she realises a matter is important to her company. As Yvie sits there and watches the two quickly exchange ideas and thoughts, something forms in her throat, and she can’t seem to swallow it, even though she tries to wash it down with her already barely lukewarm coffee.

*

“We need to talk.”

Yvie presses send on her message to Kahanna and rests her phone on the desk facedown, puffing out a heavy breath. “No, we don’t.”

It’s later. Scarlet has left three or so hours ago, after enveloping Yvie in a warm, lavender-scented embrace and sternly telling Aja to text her so they can work on a game plan regarding Farrah — at what point did they succeed to exchange phone numbers, Yvie isn’t entirely sure. Now, Aja and her have finished the inventory, and she’s been inserting the rest of the information into the software while Aja restocked the bar and took out the trash.

Despite Yvie’s words and tone, Aja grabs an empty delivery crate and turns it upside down, dropping it on the floor next to Yvie’s desk and flopping onto it with her legs spread obnoxiously.

“Good, we’re on the same page,” she says, blatantly ignoring the fact they’re not even reading the same book. “I need some answers, sis.”

Yvie lets out a disgruntled noise, trying to sound as discouraging as possible. Aja does not get the hint.

“So, let’s see,” Aja begins, resting her elbow on the edge of the desk and raising one finger, as if she’s starting to count. “First, this Scarlet lady appears out of nowhere, and you call her your gay awakening, after which you refuse to say anything more.” There’s another finger. “Then, you two hang out often enough for her to learn your coffee order.”

“She didn’t—” Yvie stutters, but Aja cuts her off with a snap of her fingers.

“Don’t bullshit me, ma. Don’t think I didn’t notice you didn’t have to add anything into that little cup she brought you.”

“I drink—”

“_Your coffee black_, yeah yeah, we all know you take it with sugar and cream, so you can stop pretending, bitch.”r

“So, she knows Kahanna, who is one of your closest friends pre-NYC,” Aja hums thoughtfully. “And she knows Brooke, who’s your girlfriend since senior year of high school. And you called her your gay awakening… Oh, my God, Yvie.”

“What?” Yvie says absently, not really paying attention to Aja’s rambling.

“I got it now,” Aja drawls out. “Yvie, is Brocklyn some sort of substitute for Scarlet? Is that it?”

Yvie snaps around to face Aja so rapidly it’s a wonder she doesn’t break her neck. “_What_. The fuck,” she says in her best unimpressed tone.

Aja just lifts her hands and shrugs in surrender, as if she’s not quite backtracking on her words but rather prompting Yvie to hear her out. “Listen, baby, it all makes sense. You’re a baby lesbian, crushing on your childhood friend. Said friend is friends with Brooke, bless her heart, nobody’s perfect. Then something happens. Her family moves away? You two lose touch, ma, whatever. Either way, you end up with the closest thing you can find to replace your sweetheart. You know, I can’t even blame you, all white people look the same.”

“You’re insane,” Yvie scoffs and shakes her head. “You need to watch less _Gossip Girl_, it clearly gives you funny ideas.”

“That’s not even the plot of _Gossip Girl_,” Aja argues.

“If you wanna know, Scarlet got sent off to a boarding school in the beginning of our junior year. Brooke and I didn’t become friends until the summer between our junior and senior years, and didn’t start dating until months later, so no, she’s nobody’s substitute. Can you stop making my relationship look like some sort of unhealthy thing where we’re just using each other, please.”

“I mean, sure,” Aja pouts. “As soon as you break up with Looke Brynn and get together with your soulmate Scarlet.”

Yvie flashes her middle finger in Aja’s general direction and gathers her phone up to check it. The first notification she sees is a message from Kahanna that reads, “_Aw, tell her I say hi too!!! Have you already told Brooke she’s back?_”

Yvie groans and tosses her phone away. “Y’all need to gimme a break and get your noses out of my relationship. I am happy with Brooke and that is where y’all’s concern should end.”

*

Yvie lets the door fall shut softly behind her and drops her backpack on the floor with a quiet thud, to be picked up shortly. She shrugs her jacket off as she walks into the walk-in closet by the entrance of the penthouse apartment, and hangs it while simultaneously toeing off her shoes.

She hears the mumbled murmur of the television before she enters the living room to find Brooke lounging on the white sofa with a glass of wine, her long legs stretched out. She wears just a silk spaghetti strap top and a pair of panties, and her eyes barely flicker between the TV and Yvie before shortly settling on the screen again.

“Hi, Broo bear,” Yvie greets and stops to kiss the top of Brooke’s head lightly.

“Hi, babe,” Brooke mutters, rising into the touch briefly and then immediately withdrawing. “There’s beer in the fridge for you.”

Yvie hums in response and tosses her backpack by the other end of the sofa before heading into the kitchen. There’s a couple beer bottles in the fridge as promised, and she grabs one, cracking it open prior to heading back. The glass is pleasantly cold against Yvie’s hot palm and beginning to sweat a little at room temperature, and Yvie can’t resist taking a swig, a satisfied moan forming at the back of her throat at the feeling of cool liquid against her lips and tongue.

She sets the beer on the coffee table, making sure to not forget to use one of the glass coasters stacked neatly on it, and flops on the sofa beside Brooke’s feet. Brooke instantly taps her toes against Yvie’s thigh, a nearly instinctive little movement, and Yvie lifts Brooke’s ankles up and slides closer, propping Brooke’s feet in her lap.

“You really need to stop rubbing your jeans against the sofa, denim transfers so easily,” Brooke scolds absentmindedly.

“Sorry, baby,” Yvie says, no real apology in her voice, just a hint of playfulness, and gives Brooke’s knee a curt squeeze. “But I’m not the one who’s made a habit of making a mess on the couch.”

Brooke kicks Yvie slightly, and shoots her an unamused look that is majorly undermined by the pink tint to her cheeks. “Fuck you, Yvie.”

“Uh-huh, maybe later, babe,” Yvie drawls out, turning her attention to the television where Brooke is watching the news. “Unless you want to leak all over the cushions again.”

“You are the worst, Yvonne,” Brooke complains.

Yvie dignifies the words with just a low noncommittal noise — the usage of the nickname enough to indicate that Brooke isn’t too serious — and reaches for her beer over her girlfriend’s feet. Taking a generous sip, she then places the bottle back on its coaster and flops against the backrest.

Brooke rolls her ankles, then stretches them out with a barely audible sigh. Her toes slip into their pointed position with almost painful familiarity, the effort hardly conscious, and Yvie has to rest her palm on Brooke’s shin to get her to release the tension she holds in her muscles.

Brooke shoots Yvie a grateful look, and, as she sips her wine and tries to relax, Yvie moves her hands to palm Brooke’s calves. When she starts adding pressure to her fingertips, something akin to half-moan, half-whimper escapes from Brooke’s lips, and glancing at her, Yvie finds she’s let her eyes fall shut, her head leaned back slightly.

“Hard day?” Yvie asks while her fingers begin to expertly work the knots in Brooke’s muscles. She’s done this enough times to know how to do it properly.

“Horrible,” Brooke breathes out. “Ugh, God, right there.”

“They’re pushing y’all too hard.”

“The closer the premiere, the harder they push. It’s normal,” Brooke shrugs and straightens up to drink more wine. “Oh, Jonathan got us our finalised schedule today.”

“Did he now?” Yvie muses, pausing for a bit to gulp some beer before continuing massaging Brooke’s silky calves

“Yeah, it’s a little… unusual,” Brooke says, bending her left leg at the knee and drawing it nearer to herself to allow Yvie better access to her right one.

“How so?”

“So, we’re premiering here in NYC on the first weekend of December like we were supposed to,” Brooke says. “But then we’re going on tour immediately after the premiere weekend.”

“Huh, that is unusual,” Yvie agrees.

“Right? We’re going to be touring for a couple weeks or so, and then we’re back in NYC to run shows as normal, sans the Christmas and New Year’s breaks.”

“Is there any reason for this, um, unorthodox solution?” Yvie asks, her thumbs gripping Brooke’s shin as she adds pressure on a particularly tense knot.

“I don’t know, Jonathan didn’t say anything,” Brooke grits through her teeth, and Yvie knows she ought to continue as she were. “But I would assume they’re trying to create some buzz around the opening weekend. You know, push the sales and the press coverage even further since it’s no _The Swan Lake _or _The Nut Cracker_. This is the first production of _The Snow Queen_ local to New York, after all.”

“Makes sense,” Yvie nods thoughtfully, and then hesitates a little, something stirring inside her urgently. She stops her movements, her hands clasping gently around Brooke’s leg, and clears her throat. “Hey, Broo, you’ll get me a seat for the premiere, right?”

“Of course,” Brooke says matter-of-factly and shakes her leg a little, prompting Yvie to keep going. “It’s our tradition.”

Yvie stays silent for a while, concentrating on digging her fingertips into the soft yet toned flesh and weighing the words circling around in her head and demanding to be spoken.

“Could I, uh,” she starts eventually. “Could I maybe bring a friend?”

She glances at Brooke, finding the other regarding her over the glass, lips pursed, in a pondering manner rather than disapprovingly.

“Who would you even bring?” she questions sharply. “Aja again so she can make a fool of herself, you, and, by extension, me once more? None of your friends know how to appreciate high arts such as ballet, Yvie.”

Before Yvie’s managed to even open her mouth to respond, Brooke lifts her hand dismissively and huffs out a heavy breath.

“Whatever, I’ll make sure there’s two seats for you, and I’ll also have to phone Mom and Dad to ask them to come some other time. They already have to stretch to give me three seats even though I’m a prima.”

Yvie feels her shoulders droop in relief, and she’s not certain whether she’s more soothed by the fact Brooke stopped pushing before she was able to say anything or by the fact she wouldn’t have to spend another awkward evening with Mr. and Mrs. Hytes. It’s not like Brooke’s parents are unsupportive of their daughter’s sexuality — on the contrary, they’ve been wonderfully accepting ever since Brooke told them she’s dating Yvie back in high school — and it’s not like Yvie doesn’t get along with them, superficially at least. Nevertheless, whenever she’s around them, she feels just a little bit out of place, just slightly inadequate, like she doesn’t know how to hold herself right, and they never seem to go out of their way to hide how, in their opinion, she doesn’t quite belong.

Brooke carefully pulls her right leg out of Yvie’s lap, and Yvie gives the calf a tender rub before letting go. She leans in to place a quick kiss on Brooke’s knee, and then angles her hips to reach in her back pocket for her phone.

“Thanks, baby,” she murmurs as she swipes up on the screen to unlock her phone. Holding the device close to her thigh, she opens the messaging app and uses one hand to type a text.

**Yvie:** Hi broadway gay, i know it’s not exactly people bursting into impromptu song and dance numbers with everyone around them inexplicably joining them, but how do you feel about ballet?

As Yvie fetches her beer, the phone buzzes with a reply against the side of her thigh. Pushing the bottle between her knees, she falls against the backrest and casts her eyes down to check the notification.

**Scarlet: **I feel good about ballet, why?

Yvie sucks on the corner of her lip thoughtfully, her gaze fixed on the text blankly until it grows unfocused and the little letters blur into each other. Then, she snaps out of it with a little shake of her head and starts typing out a response before she can think the better of it.


End file.
